Born to Breed: House of the Prophets (WARNING: May contain nuts and traces of ribaldry; a few scenes NSFW in puritanical societies)

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Eighteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part fourteen -
the world of 930-933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28

Dear Diary,

After lunch I suggested to my little witch that we do something to relieve her of the strain of a week of enforced abstinence caused by the wedding as I gave Kráka everything I could, and to our mutual enjoyment, we did. So I suggested we had another go, but she said she had something to show me first. Now, just what could that be, I asked, befuddled.

Something new, as it turned out. On the wall next to the master bed-chamber hang a chunk of slate rock, broader than it was tall, and not all that thick. It was finely cut and almost smooth, and it had writing on it.

I asked her what it was for, and my little witch was proud to explain it. This, she told me, was not just a chunk of slate, it was the slate, and she wrote on it with a stylus. Handy and erasable with a bit of work, just like a clay tablet, only better. Admittedly one couldn't bake it to get a permanent record, but you can't have everything. It was her own invention, and it was the future of household accountancy. She called it the score-board.

So I took a closer look, and at the top of the slate, going left to right, it listed the days of the week for the next two weeks, and under each day was a rune, either a 'k' or a 'v'. They didn't alternate and had no discernable system, but a quick tally showed there were seven of each.

Beneath this the slate had a horizontal dividing line, and under that a 'v' to the leftmost, and beneath that, a 'k'.

While I enjoyed the view of my little witch feeling very pleased with herself, it didn't take a genius to see that this was a schedule dividing household tasks for my wives, and it isn't as if schedules are anything new, but that erasable slate – I guess that is new. I have certainly never seen anything like it before. So I showed willing and asked her what household tasks they were dividing and what the bottom of the slate was for.

“Guess, my stallion”, she said, and in retrospect, I really should have seen it coming. She used the stylus to make a single stroke next to the 'v' below the divider.

”That better not mean what I think it means, little witch”, I said.

She just grinned at me.

It was a simple system, she explained. The schedule at the top was the duty roster, showing who I was to honour on any given day of the week. She would maintain the schedule, taking into account illness, pregnancies, and so on and so forth. The number of times I successfully honoured a day's assignment would be scored below the wife's rune for the day – hence the slate's name.

”But I don't want Kráka! I've had her for six days straight! I want you!” I wailed manfully to her, after looking more closely at the board, which clearly stated that today was a k-day, ”and I will have you!”

”You already did. That's what the single stroke below the line is for.” she calmly replied. ”It would stifle you to remove all spontaneity from your marriages, and I can't have that as stifled stallions go silly, so the top is for stall-duty and the bottom is for free-range encounters with wives that are off duty. Whenever you have one of us on the other's day, you gain a spontaneous mark below the line in the general tally for that wife. So honour marks above the line in the schedule, spontaneous marks below in the tally. If either the number of spontaneous or honour marks for one wife exceeds the number of honour marks for the other over any sustained period of time, there will be consequences. It is only fair.” she said sternly.

It was then that I realized my little witch was quite mad.

”But...” I tried to interject, to no avail. She continued: ”Additionally, each wife is granted up to five headaches a month, and as for you, my stallion, requests for up to five 'feasting with the boys' days will not be unreasonable denied so long as you do not abuse the privilege. To take a hypothetical example that I am sure would never cross your mind, only feasting on Kráka's days.”

It was too much.

”Now, you listen to me, and you listen good! I am the man in the house and I am in charge!” I said, putting my foot down.

”Of course you are.” she replied meekly.

”As for pleasing my wives, I decide who, where, when, why, and how frequently!” I explained, calmly.

”Of course you do.” she replied meekly.

”My desires take precedence over your schedule. Is that CLEAR?” I roared.

”Of course it is.” she replied meekly.

”And you'll completely ignore my objections, despite stating your acceptance, because this is part of your Grand Plan?” I queried.

”Of course I will.” she replied, no longer meek at all.

”And you've made this schedule granting Kráka equal access, because you want her pregnant as fast as possible, and thought that the most you could push Kráka on me was by underhandedly appealing to my innate sense of even-handed justice, all for your Grand Plan?” I said, and grimaced.

”You got me there, my stallion”, she answered with a grin.

”In that case, hitch up your dress, little witch, for the two of us are going to be very busy this afternoon,” I replied with an even larger grin.

”But my system!” she cried, for once distressed.

”I am following your system! Willingly! Which means today is k-day and tomorrow a v-day... But just think of it – the more times I spontaneously do you now, the more I'll be, heh, honour-bound to honour Kráka tonight so as not to start falling behind and ultimately violating the system's rule about the spontaneous outnumbering the honours, and the more I honour her, the sooner she'll be pregnant. So it would arguably be a dereliction of duty on my part were the two of us to wait until tomorow.” I explained.

”I can't help feeling that you are being too cunning by half, my stallion. It seems to be a violation of the spirit of my system.” she replied.

”But not the word! I learned this term from Kráka, and I think it applies: I am gaming the system, not violating it,” I chuckled, ”and you aren't getting out of this one. I caught you free-range, after all.”

”At least you've been listening to her, so I'll count that half a victory,” she sighed theatrically, and embraced me, ”and it has indeed been a long week waiting while the two of you had fun, so just this once I yield to your questionable wisdom. Let's ride!”

”FOR THE GRAND PLAN!”

”I'll get you for that, my stallion.”



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 29

Dear Diary,

It is confirmed. Kráka is pregnant with our first child! It will come late winter or very early spring. The timing is unfortunate, as my little witch is due mid- or late- winter, so in a few months time they'll both be big with child and undoubtedly cranky. I wonder if I should go raiding this winter.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 29

Dear Diary,

My Pomeranian manners are hurting my prospects as I attempt to rally people to my cause in the upcoming succession, but they are too much part of my public persona now for going native to be convincing, and in the long run... Honour your father, and all that.

We'll just have to work harder for the votes and see whether natural causes disqualifies any of the other candidats. Once Kráka bears my son (Freyr willing), she should be able to rally her closest siblings, and perhaps she will have her use in the greater schemes as well. Time will tell.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 29

Dear Diary,

My fourth son is born, a winter child these three weeks after Yule! I shall name him Bezprzym because frankly, my little witch claimed the right to name her son in accordance with ancient tradition after bearing me four sons. What ancient tradition I asked? Mogyër, she answered, and looked so serious I couldn't tell if she was joking. She probably was, but for a decade she's been working so hard on the dozen sons she once dreamed of, and four is a respectable start, so it seemed a shame to gainsay her. Especially when they are shaping up so well according to her progress reports.

In a few years I'll be able to summon a son with a sneeze. Not everybody can say that.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 29

Dear Diary,

My first daughter is born, a spring child, for spring came early. I shall name her Hanna. Kráka is delirious with pride in her work and for a first attempt, I guess it isn't bad. Not as useful politically as a son would have been, but at least she survived, which is the important thing, and I do care about her. I think. I would certainly miss her weirdness and those strange roleplaying games she invented. So on the whole, good work. And it'll make a welcome change from the boys. Troublemakers, one and all.

The king is overjoyed, but when even this news leaves him grazing on vegetables rather than eating and drinking like a man, he won't last much longer, so it is time we bring Kráka into the deeper planning for the succession. We've waited long enough, but better safe than sorry and surely she won't balk at her part now.

My one complaint, as I pointed out to my little witch, is that one would think Kráka hadn't helped out with all four of Viola's births and raising the children these past years, the way she carries on as if she invented childbirth and babies and goes on and on talking about her daughter. And hopefully she'll be more quiet next time. Her screams during birthing scared the little ones and curdled the milk.

My little witch acknowledged the point, but said I should let Kráka enjoy her moment of glory and humour her wishes for a few weeks, for this belonged to the ”doesn't understand women” category. My little witch promised to tell Kráka to give birth more quietly next time, pointing out that she'd do it more tactfully than I ever could.

She's probably right about that.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 29

Dear Diary,

Turns out that having a child has made Kráka miss her sisters, and in particular her younger sister Sif. I'm not quite sure how she could miss her, given that we live practically next door to the royal hall and they see each other several times a month at the very least, but I decided to follow my little witch's advice and acceeded to Kráka's request to having Sif live here for a week or two, cooing over the baby and entertaining my wife.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 29

Dear Diary,

Sif is an arrogant spoiled 15-year old, and I well understand why uncle Baldr's reaction to us taking her in for a short while was that we could have her as long as Kráka needed. She looks on me like scum, and I overheard her pitying Kráka for being married to a brute who repeatedly violated her and forced her to bear his child. Kráka tried to correct her, but 15 years old or 50, arrogant ears are deaf ears.

At least she shuts up in my presence rather than poison the air at dinner.

But what a joke. Forced? Violated? If she'd seen her sister at play, she'd know better! In one epic game of the Emir's Daughter and the Seven Veils, Kráka's adaption of my Cordoban adventure, she kept rolling doubles on the encounter table, and as I learned to my considerable surprise, there are few things more fearful than when after having spent yourself several times playing a sex game with your lovely wife and you really need to sleep or at least a pause to recover, because, frankly, you are beat and no longer have the stamina of youth, said cheerful young wife with an abundance of energy intones, “his most recent conquest left senseless with bliss on the floor, the Mighty Raider loots her veil and a loincloth of protection +1. Roaring with renewed vigour, he kicks down the door and encounters....”, followed by the sound of dice rolls, and then, “BONUS ENCOUNTER! Again? What are the odds. Let me cross-reference the target and method. Oooh, it is the Emir's Daughter's handmaiden this time! She has speed 3 so no autocapture. Lucky me! Ahem. The Mighty Raider licks his lips lasciviously and advances on his prey, a veiled nubile young handmaiden, who looks ready to bolt. 'I have you now, my pretty', he says lustily. To proceed you must beat the handmaiden in a game of Raid and Capture. Is that the 6th or 7th tonight? Oh dear. You don't have to finish with a half-Bødvar this time as your aim might be off. Rule 4A (substitution clause) says in such cases you can stallionize upon capture after roaring her into submission. Ready to start? I've practiced the voice for this one! Oh merciful Allah, the benevolent, the great, save me, for I am a poor virgin about to be ravished by this huge handsome hunk... Why are you just lying there, Sverker, my love? Stop hiding your head in the pillow. Up and at me! If you can catch me, you can have me! I'm a pooooor virgin about to be ravished – any time now, chop chop – by this huuuuge handsome hunk.”

By the time I finally reached the Emir's Daughter and the Cordoban Jewel, having ravished three of the daughter's handmaidens, two of her sisters, two actresses, her mother, her aunt, a flutist, and twin female contortionist kickboxer assassins overcome by my “rugged manly charm” who'd only let me pass if I conquered them (Kráka's roleplaying encounter tables can get passing strange, but at least the twins were autocaptures), I was done for, and when the Mighty Raider kicked down the final door, he collapsed and the Emir's Daughter had to ravish him to reach the end of the adventure so he could claim the by now thirteen veils. Which she did. I never found a use for all those loincloths of protection I collected either, not even the mother's +5 version, and they were gone in the next revision of the game.

That's the only time I've heard my little witch take Kráka to task for her games. When she saw my bedraggled state the next day, she said to Kráka what I would never have been able to do without losing my self-respect, that this was simply too much to ask of their stallion, and she demanded that Kráka amend the rules to either a) allow the raider to let some targets escape in his pursuit of the primary goal or b) automatically ignore BONUS ENCOUNTER rolls if they would lead to an encounter in excess of the seven veils of my original adventure. Kráka chose the former.

But I digress.

Come to think of it, that epic game took place about nine months back. I'll have to ask Kráka which of the veils gave birth. Was it, perhaps, one of the handmaidens? She'll appreciate the joke. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on little Sif. If nothing else, she reminded me of this epic adventure, which while rather exhausting at the time makes for a splendid memory.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 30

Dear Diary,

The king is ailing but insists on personally leading the conquest of Bohemia as part of his “Greatest Conquest Ever” scheme to ensure he goes out fighting. Perforce, I had to find an excuse to go with him, and, no surprises, so did the other chief contenders. We all want to be there for the kill. Unfortunate choice of words, there.

My little witch says it can't be helped, but she'll assemble a shopping list to ensure the opportunity isn't wasted.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 30

Dear Diary,

What a joy it is to be on campaign in Hradec! The weather is bad. The natives are stupid, the men stubborn and the women unappealing. And I'm cold and wet and want to be with my little witch.

Or failing that, a battle would not be amiss. This eternal siegecraft saps the soul.

My little witch told me to remember to be ruthless and show no mercy in order to appeal to the Blood & Guts demographic of Danish Jarls. Under no circumstances were I to allow any of the other contenders for the succession to exceed me in gallons of blood or yards of intestines personally spilled in battle... but how can I do that when the natives refuse to fight?

As for Kráka, she told me to gather new material for her nightly roleplaying games, urging me to experiment with the women I came across, but I have experienced nothing interesting so far. Just commonplace conquests, nothing to make a story of.

Hopefully I'll get an opportunity to please both of my wives once this blasted siege concludes and we sack the town. I wonder if other men suffer from these kinds of problems, but who could I ask without appearing the fool?



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 31

Dear Diary,

King Baldr is starving himself now. Having somehow survived his ridiculous escapades of the recent wars, it looks like he is finally making good on his promises to end it all since a malnourished ancient who's always first into the fray surely cannot survive long on the battlefield. It is time to strike.



The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 31

Dear Diary,

My sister Holmfridr is going to be so pissed at me. Either that or she'll come asking for favours. I wonder which it will be.

King Baldr is furious with his mighty son Egill, her husband. And why? Because of Egill's marriage to cousin Kenna two months back and the scandal that followed.

Egill arrived as summoned and today, before all of the court, king Baldr publicly reprimanded and disinherited Egill, and Egill, the chump, humbly accepted the verdict!

Mingling with my cousins in the capital this afternoon, I discovered that there's a vicious rumour going around putting the blame on me. It says I set Egill up for his fall, that Kráka promoted the marriage, and that Viola ensured the king's attention was drawn to the problematic aspects. Naturally, I denied everything: It is an obvious smear.

And anyway, they got the details wrong; Kráka tricked her sister Sif into promoting the marriage. Egill doesn't suspect a thing.

Not that we have anything against Egill. He's a splendid chap. The perfect warrior. Intellectually suited to be a vassal. Not leadership material. But he was a bit too popular with the younger and wilder Jarls and now he is out of the running.

Now I am the youngest serious contestant, and with the wild set, my reputation as the Man with the Iron Rod isn't treated as a joke but as something that recommends me. Never would I have thought that the diplomatic disaster of my wedding night would turn into an asset, but strangely, it has. They truly are stupid, and were it not that I need all the support I can get I would shun them like the hounds they are.

Once I succeed to the throne, I'll probably honour my promise to Kráka and reinstate Egill. Give him gifts. If I promote him to the limit of his abilities and play my cards right, he'll be a firm supporter. Or perhaps I won't. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

The best thing is that Egill's fall broke the last of Baldr's resistance to my empire plan. His foolish insistance that he'd carry the entire burden of kingship to the grave like his father did is a thing of the past.

Not because he finally realized that it is patently absurd to compare his burden with his father's, as he is the king of 15 separate kingdoms spread from one end of Europe to the other, and who knows he might pick up another one or two at this rate depending on whether he lives another year or two – but because he realized that this might be a way to salvage his errant son. Perhaps make him a lesser king somewhere out of the way once it is time to forgive him.

The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 31

Dear Diary,

My second daughter is born to Kráka on the cusp of winter. I shall name her Markéta after my father's favourite aunt or possibly it was one of his favourite bitches. I forget. But at least it is a female name of Slavic orgin, and that's all that matters. Kráka was less noisy this time around, possibly the result of having her sister Sif to keep her company through the birth and wanting to appear tough to her.

Kráka is somewhat disappointed with the result as she wanted a boy, but I told her not to worry as not everybody got it right the first or second time. I consoled her that if she'd just concentrate on enjoying life and her children for now, the sooner she healed, the sooner we could play a friendly game of hide the sausage and get to work on number three. Kráka murmured a fond but exhausted acceptance, but Sif gave me an icy glare and proclaimed me a pig.

She's just envious because she's nearly 17 and still unmarried. She'll sing a different song when she's married to cousin Hugh of Normandy in late spring and has her first serving of Freyr's sauce. Possibly a painful song, as Hugh has issues, but will she or nil she, she'll do her duty in the end.

Not that I care, really, but when I complained to my little witch today that Sif was an annoyance - it was bad enough when she merely looked down on me as scum violating her sister last year, now she speaks up as if she's got a right to insult me in my own house – my little witch told me Sif was merely high spirited. Viola said she had plans for marrying Sif's offspring into the main line as she and Hugh were bound to produce beautiful children, so she'd prefer I treat her courteously. She tried explaining to me the benefits of breeding a Hugh-Sif daughter to our son Wincenty or Udalrich, or a son of theirs to my daughter Hanna or how about newborn Marketá? It was never too early to start looking at opportunities.

She's always looking ahead, my little witch, but this... This was just too glorious a thought, as I imagined the spoiled princess' outraged face were she to be informed of my little witch's planning for her future offspring. She'd combust on the spot! I shared the thought with my wife and we both found it impossible to keep a straight face and broke down howling with laughter.

So I promised to be good and never tell Sif, but when the arrogant princess joined us for dinner tonight and informed us cool as you please that she was never going to have any children after seeing what her sister went through, it was hard to stifle a chuckle. My little witch thanked her gravely for the information while Kráka looked mortified and Sif self-righteous.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31

Dear Diary,

Last night, I was too tired to do my duty. That's a first. So to celebrate the day's momentous achievement and my own elevation to the kingdom of Denmark, I decided on an experiment and damning the schedule, I proclaimed it a sleep-only vk-day and snuggled up with both my wives, drifting off to blessed sleep with a lovely on each arm.

Upside: A very comfortable way to go to sleep, engulfed by love and warmth on either side.

Downside: While I am used to my wives' snoring, and they to mine, it turned out their snoring caused constructive interference, amplifying the sound, and I was blasted awake long before morning. Also, my arms were killing me when I awoke, so I had to extricate them, which woke my wives. They appreciated being awakened no more than I did and we were all grumpy yet unable to sleep.

Upside to downside: Having had a few hours of sleep, I was no longer that tired, and set out to prove it. So a good time was had by all until the early hours of daylight forced us out of bed, rather the worse for wear.

Downside to upside to downside: This morning my little witch claimed it was hard to score on the score-board, and she was a bit cranky about my dictatorial deviation from schedule and her lack of sleep. Also, I was dead on my feet. Not the best shape for dealing with the diplomatic fallout from yesterday's announcements.

On the whole an interesting experience, but probably not one to repeat too frequently. I need my sleep. Thus do practicality defeat daydreams.

But I get ahead of myself.

Yesterday months of work of planning bore fruit with the creation of the High Kingdom of Denmark, ruled by the one and only High King Baldr I.

For his first act as High King, I, as his preferred heir and the Jarl of Jutland, was granted the Kingdom of Denmark. There was some grumbling at that, but since the majority leaned towards cousin Gudfridr as primary heir to the new High Kingdom and the ancestral lands of kingdom of Denmark, though historically important, really didn't matter these days, not too much. My competitors probably saw it as a cheap way of buying me off.

His second act was to strip three non-Sigurdr dukes in central Europe of their lands, an unjust act but perhaps, in the circumstances, a necessary one – a final housecleaning, so to speak. Well, nobody would complain about that.

His third was to hand off spare land to his remaining heirs, such that nobody was left entirely unsatisfied. The confiscated land and the recent Bohemian conquests came in handy for that.

And in his infinite wisdom and arguable dotage, his fourth was to make me king of every single kingdom within the High Kingdom whose Jarls can't be counted on to support me over the opposition. I am now personally responsible for a third of the High Kingdom.

The howls of my competitors must have been heard even at the farthest reaches of Midgård.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 1 -
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

Karmavision, June 3rd 1st 2119

As promised last week, joining us tonight is the one and only prince Sigurd af Sigurd of Isfahan, here to answer your most burning questions concerning his worldwide best seller, volume 1 of Born to Breed: House of the Prophets, soon to be a major motion picture.

AUDIENCE: APPLAUSE.

Sigurd – For the first question, a considerable number of viewers are confused about the talk of votes and bloodshed in pre-empire elections, and I'll admit to being confused myself. That's not part of any election I know of! Would you care to elaborate on the ancient practice?

I can try. It is a difficult concept to understand, but you must remember that these were dark times. The Sigurdr gene had not been isolated and oneness had not been achieved, so in essence, there was no guidance.

Om?

Exactly.

I see. I think.

And thereby reach perfection. Next question?

Err... Perhaps you could expand a bit on the explanation, Sigurd? Perhaps compare elections now and then?

If I must. Today elections are a simple affair. At each level of government, your fellow Sigurdr subjects for any official position sit and meditate until consensus is achieved. Ten minutes tops from the moment they assume the position to the final “Om”, in most cases. Easy, efficient, and with little room for error. They had none of that. Succession by election was a question of having the most free men supporting you – except where the primitive rite of succession by birth was practised.

Free men? No women?

Correct. We aren't sure why, but current thinking has it that the women were too smart and sensibly avoided getting involved. It seems reasonable. Anyway, in the days before Sigurd the Prophet, once a new ruler was required, those chiefs who considered themselves to be contenders would join up at a local Thing with their sworn men, all sworn to Odin's peace, and calmly explain why they would make the best ruler. With me so far?

Yes.

When each chief had spoken, if that did not convince the other contenders to withdraw in favour of the one who had spoken most eloquently, the free men supporting each candidate would raise a cry. Whomever shouted loudest and demoralized the other contenders' supporters would be crowned chief (or king at the national Things) by popular acclamation.

Sounds peaceful enough.

Mostly, yes. If nothing else, then because everybody bringing an armed group of supporters reduced the opportunity for one of the opponents to reduce the contender headcount before they reached the safety of the Thing. Granted, there was the risk that a sore loser who disagreed with the verdict might leave the Thing early and attempt to waylay the winner as he left the Thing, but doing so was considered bad form. Things got messy then, when the swords talked.

Fascinating. This, then, was the system that Sigurd the Prophet reformed?

Yes. Sigurd tried reforming it in various ways through his long reign. An early reform was finding the intentions of chiefs before the succession, in the hope of working out differences of opinion beforehand, whether by reason or sword. He had his Handy Henchmen compile official Free Men estimates for each ruler, to stand in for showing up with an armed host. During Yule celebrations, he had all contenders rowed into the middle of the Sound and dumped in the water, while asking the remaining chiefs on the shore who they hoped survived the swim, and then he tallied the Free Men scores. This was a little joke of his, as no serious contender would have a problem with a short 2 kilometer swim or, in the years where the Sound froze, walk.

Sounds merry.

Indeed it was, and as a historical curiosity it is the origin of the phrase “taking soundings”. Sigurd was supposedly much taken with the spectacle, and were it not for the blizzard of 896, renowned in saga and song, culling the competition, he might have stuck with it. The following year he reformed the practice by making contenders take part in a symbolic swim in an indoor artificial lake of beer erected for the purpose, and asking the other chiefs who they supported. This had the advantage that they could stay indoors and drink the beer afterwards, so on the whole it was considered an improvement.

Fascinating, but unhygienic.

Flavourful, certainly. Your opinion was shared by Baldr the King, who reformed the process by getting rid of the symbolic swim and keeping the beer, and only the old guard complained about the weakening of the moral fibre. His Yule celebrations turned into official and unofficial vote tallies, both as the king's party game, as education for the youth, and as a very practical way of measuring the balance of power in the realm between the different Sigurdr princes. This practice spread throughout the Danish realm, and soon most successions were determined in principle in advance based on taking soundings, which were then publicly supported at the Thing upon succession, making it all nice and civilized except in cases of strong differences of opinion.

Strong differences of opinion?

Treachery. Arson. Murder most foul. In other words, business as usual in the 9th century, and the sort of old-fashioned nonsense that was frowned upon during the reign of Baldr the king in the 10th.

Thanks for the explanation, Sigurd. We are all the wiser for this.

Om.

For your next question, Sigurd, perhaps unsurprisingly, the majority of question we've received concern the half-Bødvar, ranging from the bewildered, to the disbelieving, to the hostile from members of the medical profession claiming you are single-handedly responsibly for the worldwide rise in the number of back injuries this spring, but the one thing they all have in common is a burning desire to know: How?

Frankly, I had expected that to be the first question.

AUDIENCE: LAUGHTER

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 2 -
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

Undated notes preserved in copy in the royal archives.

I CALL THE MEETING OF THE COMMITTEE TO ELECT SVERKER HIGH KING TO ORDER. Will you do the minutes, little witch?

If I must, but please don't shout. I'm not deaf, beloved.

GREAT! Errr, great. Attending: I'm present. Are you present, Kráka.

Yes, my love.

And my little witch?

Yes, my stallion.

All present and accounted for. First point on the agenda is Diplomatic Initiatives.


Where else would we be, my stallion? Really, this is silly.

It is not silly! I'm being sensitive.

He's right, it isn't silly. I could be in my room preparing for tonight, Viola. When you agreed I could have him all week to distract me from father's impending death, I began planning a new game in several acts, and there are still so many preparations to do.

ORDER!


Oh? Give me details, there's a dear.

I call it Darkest Dungeon. See, there is this lecherous lord, who has a dungeon stocked with captives, but – plot twist – he is blind! (I've got a blindfold, don't worry.) So one night, when he visits his dungeon...


ORDER! ORDER! AS I WAS SAYING, I'm just trying to be sensitive to Kráka's feelings, little witch. It isn't every day her father's about to shuffle off the mortal coil and join the einherjar. Starving himself to death, miserable and raging from meat-withdrawal, why, it's enough to make anybody a bit sad, even if he's a terrible old bore who's made a lifestyle out of nearly dying and reviving, delaying my rightful accession to the throne. Speaking of which, I hope he really IS dying this time Kráka, and not pulling another miraculous recovery by broccoli. ANYHOW, little witch, if I didn't approach this happy subject in a sensitive empathetic and touchy-feely fashion, Kráka would cry, and we wouldn't want that, would we?

No, we wouldn't, and I guess it is working, my stallion, not a tear to be seen. A rather disturbing grin, though.

What she said. And don't worry, father is definitely dying this time. He was plotting to attack unsuspecting visitors in the hope of an honourable exit when I left him. Which reminds me, please don't visit him. So I'm definitely crying on the inside, but good work cheering me up with your sensitivity and empathetic nature and stuff. Your concern means a lot to me. And that's a sad grin, Viola.

Were your grin any wider, dear, half your head would fall off, I'm just saying.

Proof that Sverker's encouragement is working!


DIPLOMATIC INITIATIVES, PLEASE.


Let me guess, Kráka. Your game is an “I have you now, my pretty” situation, where most of the captives are young women either in a shocking states of undress or easily torn clothing, and some are virgins.

Got me there, Viola. Stick to the basics, I say.


CAN WE PLEASE STAY ON SUBJECT... Wait, VIRGINS? Again? Look, Kráka, what is it with the despoiling of virgins in your games? Take it from me, it really isn't all that interesting an activity dealing with inexperience coupled with existential angst or misguided fantasies when you break them in.

My father used to boast that lining up the virgins and doing them one by one was the best part of raiding.

Nobody ever does that! That's just the sort of nonsense men boast to one another. Just like the size of their equipment. Look, it is a fine enough activity for young men to engage in, but for stress relief, give me a matron who knows what's what any day of the week, if you know what I'm saying. Also, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, your virgin impression is somewhat lacking, Kráka, as your experience shows. Your farmgirl impression, though. Rawr!

Thanks!

But I digress, though while we are on the topic of games, I must inform you that nobody, anywhere, ever, said, “I have you now, my pretty”, except under duress or when forced by the rules of your games. Finally, I have never, ever, encountered a lord who stockpiled virgins in his dungeons. That's an unsound economical practise, if ever I heard of one. I mean, even if you could find them, and there are fewer of them around that you might think, any ruler who went rounding them up would soon have an uprising on his hands. So what would be the point?

I get to perform innocence lost and do my squeaky voice! I've been practising and I am really looking forwards to doing my squeaky voice!

About that, dear. It is rather high-pitched. And loud. Would it be possible for you to dampen the squeaky voice and the screams of outrage a bit? Last time you woke the little ones.

I'll try to keep it in mind, Viola, but you know how hard it is to concentrate when he enters ramming mode.

I TRUST THAT'S ALL? DIPLOMATIC INITITATIVES, ANYBODY? Sorry, little witch. Got carried away there. I don't know what came over me.


He's blushing!

AM NOT.

Are too, my stallion. But Kráka, as amusing as this is, please be a dear and stop teasing him, or he'll be a grouchy old bear and we'll be here all the day. I believe you have some news you wish to share?

Right. Right. Business before pleasure. I've been talking to Egill since he arrived from his self-imposed exile in Samogitia, and I know you don't need his vote, and I know you don't owe him anything after knocking him out of the competition fair and square (well, square, at least), but you did promise me you'd reinstate him in the dynasty, and he's my favourite brother and married to your sister, and he really could be very helpful to you.

Yes, yes. Your father did Egill wrong when he disinherited him over that minor issue. What does Egill want.

Reinstatement. Kingdom of Lithuania. Serving as your marshal.

He can have two out of three and count himself lucky. Reinstatement and kingdom in return for his loyal and public support and tell him he'll have to prove himself worthy of leading the armies. I hope that makes you happy. Anything else?

Thanks, Sverker, you're the best. There are no other changes with my brothers. Gudfridr is still firmly in your camp and one day you'll have to tell me how you managed that, and Emundr isn't. But Emundr is mostly grumbling. He likes ruling Greater Poland. The rest don't count.

Well done, Kráka. Now, my little witch, how about your diplomatic initiatives?


I am pleased to say those under my thumb are voting the party line. That idiot in Kent showed signs of straying, but a few words from his chief wife returned him to the fold. Still, he bears watching.

Noted. Anything else?

I have developed a new contact in Prussia. Karl – you know Karl? Muscles on muscles and loyal to a fault?

Solid dependable man for a non-Sigurdr. Uncle Baldr gave him a lot of land on the Baltic and foisted a daughter on him to keep it in the family. I take it she is your contact?

She reports to me now. They are in town to be in on the kill and division of spoils, and I saw an opportunity. No offense intended, Kráka, but Aslaug is a cynical bitch if ever there was none, and I can use that. Karl was getting a bit too comfy with Emundr of Greater Poland, but he's besotted with his wife and Aslaug has set him straight and he's now champing at the bit to violate a few borders when he returns home, to keep Emundr on his toes.

None taken, Viola. Aslaug was always a bitch, looking down on me and Sif and Praxida's other children, but now that she's here for father's death, she is downright nauseating. She's all “Karl this” and “Karl that”, as if her Karl has anything on our Sverker. I can't wait for the happy moment when she has to address me as high queen and I'll rub her nose in it. It can't happen soon enough.

Your claws are showing, dear.

Don't care. She always brings out the worst up in me.


No fighting, no biting, wives. As for me, I've been rallying the faithful and drinking the wavering under the table. In unrelated news, we have been the beneficiaries of a stroke of luck, as there's been an outbreak of friendly stabbings in Normandy. The bodies were piled three deep by the end, significantly reducing the count of free men. Or at least the count will be, once the survivors get around to counting the bodies and reporting the outcome.

How fortuitous, my stallion. It wouldn't surprise me if the fitness of the Norman Dukes to rule became a matter for debate.

When you put it like that, little witch, neither would I.


On a related note, could my sister Sif stay over while we wait for father to die? I really miss her and she could prove useful.

Out of the question. She's an unsurpassed annoyance. What in the name of Thor the not-so-bright made you think I'd agree to have your sister as guest, insulting me morning and evening, in these crucial days where I need to hold my temper. And how's that a related note anyway?

I'm sure she wouldn't insult you. That's ancient history. She's much more mature than on her last visit.

It was three months ago!

That's a long time when you are 17, Sverker, my love. I'm just trying to help, so no need for you to carry on so.

Sorry... Please tell me how this would be a help to me. I am all agog.

Sif, as you'll recall, is bethrothed to Hugh, son of the Duke of Normandy and a Duke in his own right up in Norway, like altogether too many of the Duke of Normandy's sons, and they are thick as thieves. Hence our slight Norman problem. Sif hasn't met Hugh since they were bethrothed a decade ago, so with both of them at court now, mother has arranged for her to meet him several times to get to know him before their upcoming marriage. If Sif stays with us, she'll be more than happy to spy on him and the other Normans for me, just like old times. If she stays at home with mother, then mother will get all the hot news, and, as you know, mother doesn't share.

You are making me choose between my sanity and my desire for power, Kráka. Not fair.

Sanity is overrated, my stallion.

Does that mean I can invite Sif?

…

I'm going to regret this, but yes.

You are the best, Sverker!


Thanks. Next point on the agenda is People Who Need to Die, Soonest. I've been busy reducing headcount this week, so I don't have anybody. How about you?

I'm good, Sverker.

Ditto. Bodies from the last round needs to cool first or it'll appear suspicious. Well, more suspicious.


Moving on, the final point on the agenda is Any Other Business. Hands up if you've got some. Both of you? Kráka, you get to go first.

I managed to impress cousin Freyr of Flanders, for what it is worth. I doubt you can count on his support, but he's in awe of you and I think unlikely to oppose you.

It is worth little, but anything helps, I guess. Even the Fucker of Flanders.

What did you do to impress him, dear?

You are going to love this, Viola. I encountered him on my way to visit Sif yesterday, and, probably out of boredom, he came on to me all lubricious, the way he does to any woman over the age of twelve and below 80 or so when he's got nothing better to do, you know what I mean.

Oh, yes. He's suffering Freyja's curse, that one, and must be handled firmly. You've got to step on that creep, hard, to make him slink away, and from the light in your eyes, you did exactly that.

I did better! First I told him to cut it out as I was a married woman, which, of course, he ignored, and he followed up by asking what Sverker had that he didn't...

Oh no, he didn't.

Oh yes, he did. Primed for a boasting contest and waiting for my initial bid. So I looked him straight in the eyes, and I stepped right up and crowded his personal space, inches from his body, and told him: “A two foot iron rod.”

Wait what? Granted that IT is larger than most when it arises in might, you've surely handled it enough to know it isn't two feet long Kráka. Nobody could swallow that. STOP LAUGHING, LITTLE WITCH. It was a Lokian slip. You know what I mean.

Yes, my stallion.

I mean, foot-and-a-half, and that's really stretching it. Err. Unfortunate choice of words there.

If you've got small feet.

What was that, little witch?

Just thinking of the children while you are rambling, my stallion. Udalrich needs new boots. Now shush, I want to hear the rest of Kráka's tale.

Thanks Viola. So, there I was, Freyr looking stunned, and I moved in for the kill, asking him scornfully: “Are you man enough to compete?” Well, Freyr knew that he was outmatched, or perhaps he couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't have you coming for his head, Sverker, my love, but to give him some credit he made a valiant attempt at forfeiting with grace, repeating the old saw that it isn't its size that matters or how you use it, it is the sound it makes when you smack it on the table.

I hope you picked up that gauntlet, dear.

Oh, yes, and flung it right back in his face. I put on a worried expression and agreed that there was something to be said for the wisdom of the ancients. For while it was great way to start the day with the insertion of the first foot or so, and have IT lift me out of bed so I slid down the full length, and while it impressed when my husband used it to do push-ups, perhaps I was overly impressed because I was an excitable young woman who had only known one man. I'd make sure to ask Sverker to smack IT on the table tonight and report back on the sound. I left him green with envy, and shrinking on the spot.

Glorious! I chose well when I chose you!

You're both crazy. Just thinking of attempting using it for push-ups makes IT shrink, Kráka. And as for using it as an internal lever to lift you out of bed? Nobody would believe that. At least not hands-free. I'll consider cousin Freyr to be intimidated by mental damage and let us never mention this again lest I be affected too.

Let's try it anyway, my stallion? I'm smaller and lighter than Kráka, so you could experiment and work your way up.

NO. Not right now, at any rate. Let's discuss it on the next v-day. For now, back to business. You had something you wanted to say too, little witch?


Smack IT on the table for us, my stallion! Freyja wills it!

NO, JUST NO.

He's afraid to break the table, Viola. Stands to reason.

I AM NOT AFRAID. I AM GOAL ORIENTED.

So am I. Kráka, quickly, grab his left arm, I've got the right one.

What's this, little witch?

You are our prisoner. Smack the table!

This is ridiculous!

Kráka promised, my stallion.

I did, my love.

It is still ridiculous! Firstly, I'm not in the mood and IT is completely limp, so the whole idea is a no-go. And secondly, and more importantly before you get any smart ideas, I'm about to become the bloody High King and the two of you High Queens, and you want me to smack the table with IT? Have I no dignity? Have you no respect?

Is that a trick question, my stallion?

Oohh, I know. You can teach me all about respect tonight, Sverker, my love, when you encounter... a noble VIRGIN! What do you think of this one: Is this a sword I see before me, the handle towards my hand. Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Thou art? I clutch thee, and thou throb? Heat-seeking, thou sayest? What a curious idea. Stab me deep, Oh Lecherous Lord, and bathe thy instrument of desire in this maiden's blood!

NOT THE SQUEAKY VOICE!

That was a pretty good one, Kráka. He may claim to hate the squeaky voice, but IT is definitely stirring.

Thanks.

IS NOT. LET GO OF ME!

Kráka, I'm about to teach you some secret Christian magic our husband brought me as a gift for our wedding. He stole it from a Christian witch he seduced.

Iyana's sermon? It won't work, little witch. I am older and stronger, and I can withstand it if I try.

Let's put it to the test, shall we? Now, listen very carefully, Kráka, I shall say this only once: Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha. Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and they loved Lazarus. Then said Jesus unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead, and they looked down, and they saw, that it was so.

I am calm and in control, little witch.

And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their lover. Jesus saith unto Martha, Thy lover shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.

We've got movement, Viola!

STOP IT!

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life. I know a shortcut if thou wouldst know the glory of God. And he commanded, LAZARUS, COME FORTH! And he that was dead did come forth, and Martha was filled by the glory of God. And when she was satisfied, she called Mary her sister secretly, saying, The Master is come, and calleth for thee!

BLAAM!!!

By Freyja, that's some magic! I still have so much to learn from you, Viola.

Disappointing. Most disappointing. I was expecting something more impressive.

IT tore right through his trousers, Viola!

I'm referring to the sound, dear. Does smacking the table from below count, or should I make him give it another go from above?

It definitely counts, Viola.

Too bad. Oh, well. Run along to your stall and prepare.

Meeting adjourned while I recover my dignity and a new pair of trousers.

Don't forget to mend the table while you are at it, my stallion. We need it whole for dinner.

Hah. Hah. Very funny, little witch.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 3 -
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31

Dear Diary,

My little witch hates taking minutes.

This has been an embarrassing day. So embarrassing it is hard to say what embarrassed me most, but let me repeat myself:

My little witch hates taking minutes.

After today's meeting of the Committee to Elect Sverker High King, which was embarrassing in its own right due to some wifely digressions from the subject matter, I read the minutes in anticipation of filing them.

I found myself both surprised and further embarrassed, as it turned out that my little witch had taken certain liberties in the writing thereof. My stern and majestic dominance of the meeting was presented in terms that could easily be misunderstood, leading the reader to mistake me for a henpecked husband at worst, and a slightly dimwitted braggart being led by the nose by my wives at best. What's worse, she indulged in what can only be described as a creative writing exercise, inventing stories about certain events that were struck from the record because they were obviously irrelevant to the meeting's purpose!

So I confronted her, gently pointing out that the purpose of writing minutes in the first place was to record the facts. She claimed that that was exactly what she had done, writing down everything exactly as she recalled it, and when I pointed out that the minutes differed significantly from my recollections, and in particular that she had not struck the events from the record that I had clearly decided needed to be struck, she said the following:

“My stallion... It is characteristic of all committee discussions and decisions that every member has a vivid recollection of them and that every member's recollection of them differs violently from every other member's recollection. Consequently we accept the convention that the official decisions are those and only those which have officially recorded in the minutes by the officials, from which it emerges with an elegant inevitability that any decision which has been officially reached will have been officially recorded in the minutes by the officials and any decision which is not recorded in the minutes has not been officially reached even if one or more members believe they can recollect it, so in this particular case if the decision had been officially reached it would have been officially recorded in the minutes by the officials. And it isn't so it wasn't.”

So I asked her whether that did not mean, in practice, that whatever she felt like writing would be the official record of decisions, regardless of my opinion thereof?

She said she hadn't really thought of it in those terms, but she guessed I was right. How fortunate, then, that she had such an excellent memory. Unless I wanted to overturn convention and insist on my own memory overruling the proper record, of course, which was well within my right as king and husband, but in that case, what would be the point of writing minutes in the first place? Perhaps I would like to write the minutes myself, she suggested, grinning at me.

I hastily reassured her that there was no reason to go to such extremes, and I was happy with her writing the minutes. It was rather embarrassing having to back down like that, but on the other hand, my little witch was greatly amused by her victory, so I'll consider it half a win for myself anyhow. She's usually too busy to have much fun, so everything I can do to help counts.

...And from a practical perspective, it is not as if I had any other option, really. It wouldn't be fitting for a great king to take minutes, and obviously I cannot have a scribe present for secret meetings, and the one time Kráka took the minutes we ended up with the rules for a new social game she called Werebear, which, while considerable fun at parties, were useless as a record of the meeting.

So that means my little witch, and I guess her minutes are of some use to me as a record of events even when she gets creative. Hopefully nobody else will ever read them. Perhaps leave standing orders that all minutes be burned upon my death.

Was that the most embarrassing event of the day? No, it was not.

Consider dinner.

During dinner Sif stared daggers at me and though it beat suffering her insults, it was rather distracting. When I finally could not take it any longer, I asked her diplomatically to stop, and in response to my reasonable request she abased herself on the floor and answered sarcastically, “Your wish is my command, oh great Violator.” Kráka laughed and the children were in stitches, and though my little witch held her tongue, her eyes sparkled with mirth.

It was hard maintaining a proper sense of decorum and dignity after that, but I managed. Probably not the most embarrassing event either, but I am already regretting granted Kráka's wish. It is going to be a long week if Sif keeps this up.

Or perhaps Kráka's new game was the most embarrassing. It is certainly a fair contender.

After I came to her room, she stripped and blindfolded me, then spun me around “to see which cell you end up facing”. As novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend spinning while blindfolded. It is not at all the same as spinning with closed eyes, where some light penetrates.

So she went beyond the game partition to dress for her first role, or undress, as it turned out, and returned and told the Lecherous Lord to move forwards to violate... A reluctant virgin, trapped against the wall! I gritted my teeth and, as she instructed, said “I like a girl with spirit” (which is only marginally an improvement on “I have you now, my pretty”), and had her up against the wall. As novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend serving Freyr's sauce to somebody pretending to resist while blindfolded. Things aren't always where you think they are.

That being said, I must admit that whether it was because of her practising the squeaky voice (it was worse than ever), her desire to prove my comments at the meeting wrong, or perhaps, just perhaps, because I was completely blind and had to operate by touch and sound, she managed to make it feel like I was engaging somebody wholly inexperienced at the oldest game as I blindly had at her. Fun times, but in retrospect, I think most credit goes to my blindness rather than her acting abilities.

After the next spin the Lecherous Lord was apparently facing a scantily clad Shrieking Scythian Warrior Woman who was an excellent equestrian and, surprise, a virgin. I'll be damned if knew where the Lecherous Lord had collected such a woman – or where Kráka had learned of the Scythians, for that matter; Though scratch that, my little witch being an expert on ancient Rome and Greece, the source is all too clear.

Apparently, the unsuspecting warrior woman needed to be taken for a ride by surprise, just as at our wedding (hah), but Kráka was too clever by half with this play. I did manage to impale her, more by luck than by skill, but since I was dangerously unstable and tottering around after the spin, like the experienced rider she was Kráka locked legs immediately rather than flailing around as at our wedding. She still made an attempt at seeming reluctant and not knowing what's what, but it was a poor showing as we were both more concerned with avoiding falling than reenacting the wedding night, and Kráka shrieked directions in a truly weird voice while I bumped into things and muttered curses. After I bruised my shin on a chair that unreasonably didn't move out of the way fast enough, she saw the wisdom in directing me to the bed, and the exercise ended better than I had expected. But as novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend taking anybody for a ride while blindfolded.

I'll admit I was getting into the spirit of the thing, “I like a girl with spirit” notwithstanding, and after a short rest and a bit of grumbling about my bruised shin-bone, I was on my feet and spinning again. I now had to perform the half-Bødvar on the table, the victim being a nun taken unawares while praying. Who was apparently in the habit of being naked under her habit. Very funny, Kráka.

I had my doubts at the wisdom of trying to nail her blindfolded with a half-Bødvar while dizzy, and rather expected I'd be hammering her leg or missing entirely to our mutual embarrassment, but, well, it was her game, and she did need comforting and distracting from her father's imminent death, and if this is what it took, I'd be a poor husband if I objected to her small eccentricities. So I had at her, tearing the habit, getting a grip, flipping her in the air – and I have seldom been more embarrassed in my life, than when she crashed to the floor with a cry of “Sverker!!!!” while I thrust, missed, and tripped over her body. Fortunately she cushioned my fall. Kráka is considerate like that. As novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend performing the half-Bødvar while blindfolded.

Kráka accidentally kicked me in the royal jewels as she got to her feet, which hurt like nobody's business, and by mutual assent we called it a night. She hobbled in pain behind the game screen to dress while I sat on the floor, whimpering and ridding myself of the silly blindfold. When I finally got to my feet she returned, and disregarding her own pain, she insisted on soothing mine, since she considered herself at fault for not moving me into a proper position at the table to start with to ensure she had something to land on. Counting on me to know the direction after spinning had been a big mistake. To which I could only agree, but wise to the ways of women, I did so silently.

I did insist on banning the half-Bødvar from any future blindfolded games.

But was that the most embarrassing event of the day? No, it was not.

No, if I have to single out one event as the most embarrassing, my choice is earlier in the evening, after dinner, as the women were clearing the table, when I overheard young Wincenty ask my little witch, “Mummy, what cracked the table?” and she replied that he was too young to know.

At which point he looked at me curiously and said deadpan, “Say no more”.

It is going to be a long week. Uncle Baldr can't die soon enough.



–--
Yes, Viola was channelling Sir Humphrey Appleby here. Steal from the best!

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 4 -
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

Karmavision, June 3rd 1st 2119, continued


For your next question, Sigurd, perhaps unsurprisingly, the majority of question we've received concern the half-Bødvar, ranging from the bewildered, to the disbelieving, to the hostile from members of the medical profession claiming you are single-handedly responsibly for the worldwide rise in the number of back injuries this spring, but the one thing they all have in common is a burning desire to know: How?

Frankly, I had expected that to be the first question.

AUDIENCE: LAUGHTER

It is no laughing matter. I am sorry to disappoint you on this, but I don't know how to perform it. Nobody does. It is a lost art. Apart from King Sverker's extensive diary, from which I made sure to include all pertinent details in Born to Breed: House of the Prophets, few references to the act exist, some of them dubious. Like the reference in the fourth prophet's poem Guilty Pleasures:

She flew through the air, her face bright and bold,
awaiting with glee, the pleasure foretold.
I readied my lance, like fell kings of old,
and speared her in flight, relieving my cold.

The fourth prophet wrote that???

The fourth is generally considered a better prophet than poet, and this is, I can fairly say without slandering my revered ancestor, nowhere near the worst. I am sure you see the problem. It could be a reference to the half-Bødvar, hunting birds to make soup against a cold, something else entirely, or mere drivel. In fact, were it not for Queen Ragnhild's edict complicating matters, historians would be tempted to dismiss the half-Bødvar as a myth or the creation of an overly imaginative mind; There is a minority opinion amongst my learned colleagues that Sverker was an unreliable narrator in his writings, writing not a diary in the modern sense of recording events faithfully, but as self-insert fiction based on his life and times, finding this the easiest explanation for the half-Bødvar as well as certain outrageous and highly unlikely events he narrates. There are also those who argue that the secret diaries of king Sverker are an outright fabrication from the early 14th century, but nobody listens to them.

Back up a bit, Sigurd, please. Which edict would that be?

High Queen Ragnhild the Great – surely you know of her - hated the half-Bødvar enough to put it on the proscribed weapons' list, banning its use against the faithful. Successfully too, one assumes, as there there are no references to it after her reign.

A proscribed weapon?

Yes. Which suggests that either Sverker was unusual in using it on friendly targets, that sensitivities had changed by her time, that the Queen in this, as in other matters, took a progressive view, or perhaps the Queen had personal experience and disliked it. Historians are divided on the issue. The proscription reads, ”It breaks the back in the fall, batters the gatehouse when the lance strikes true, and is a farce when it does not. Let henceforth this triple indignity be inflicted only on the Heathen and the Apostate.”

How very interesting, and I hope you don't take this wrong, but if I may play Loki's megaphone here for the medical profession, isn't that something that it might have been a good idea to warn your readers of.

AUDIENCE: BOOS.

I did warn them. It is clearly stated in footnote 42. But apparently a few readers failed to read the footnotes.

You can't say fairer than that. Thanks for the clarification. How about best guesses as to how? Asking for a friend.

Well, I did perform a few experiments as research for my book, but they were not, shall we say, fully satisfactory. I stand in good company. The family being what it is, the royal archives contain centuries of annotations and results of experiments made after the diary was discovered following the Great Fire of 1324, but all record failure and great agony. Well, all except one, and that's of no use.

So it was recreated? But lost again, presumably?

Probably not. You see, it was prince Rolf Rolf af Sigurd of Iceland, the 17th century prince who was so large they named him twice, who claimed complete success. His step-by-step guide to the act with illustrations is frankly ridiculous and would require clearly superhuman bedroom athletics even for the divinely inspired. Even were it not for the improbability of his guide, he's not considered a reliable source.

I'm afraid my knowledge of 17th century royalty leaves something to be desired. Why isn't he considered reliable?

He was one of those dabblers in the sciences whose well intentioned experiments were to the detriment of his intellect. You've probably heard of his teacher. Prince Rolf Rolf was one of the foremost students of the famous Halvgrim Helgrimsen, renowned for his invention of phrenology.

Err, could you clarify?

The science of identifying character traits by a detailed mapping of the shape of the skull, bumps and all. Discredited theory now, of course, but for a while it was all the craze.

So he's considered unreliable because of the study of phrenology?

Oh, no, not at all. Perfectly valid area of research. While we know it is wrong now, it seemed reasonable at the time. Unfortunately, prince Rolf Rolf, though a genius like most of the family, was a Thoradian with a cutting-edge approach to research, seeking a synthesis of science and religion. His contribution to the field of phrenology was the theory that since the bumps were important for character, you could mold character by inflicting bumps. With a hammer. Preferably a blessed replica of Mjølner, but in a pinch any old hammer would do. He was bit too enthusiastic practising what he preached, regularly hitting his head to create the bumps that would, or so his theory had it, give him the personality of the perfect man.

Fascinating. Did it work?

Not according to his wife, whose despairing letters to her sister provide a stark view of his degeneration, and his scholarly output dwindled alongside his battered brain. Since his investigation of the half-Bødvar came late in his life, when he had a problem distinguishing people from potted plants, he is not considered a reliable source.

As illuminating as this is, Sigurd, are we to understand that the act has been lost for good? That you were not just leading us on when you described it as a lost art?

Yes. Though that is hopefully about to change. As you can imagine, this has created some problems for the upcoming motion picture. There's only so much you can do with CGI and a willing suspension of disbelief, so the studio petitioned the temple for a dispensation from the Moderately Unsafe Sex Act on grounds of religious glorification, and I am pleased to say that it was granted.

Religious glorification?

The fourth prophet reference. The High Priestess of Isfahan loved it and gave the project her blessing.

The High Pristess of Isfahan? That would be your fifth wife, who so enthusiastically modelled for your best-selling self-help book, Inbreeding is how you get the best racehorses? The one with the big

That is hardly relevant. She guaranteed a fact-based evaluation, and that is what we got. Anyway, Isfahan is not that big a scene. We are all related. Why, the High Priestess is not only my wife, but also my cousin twice, thrice, and five times removed (she loves primes) as well as my aunt, and the producer himself is her third husband (and she his second wife), making us wife-fellows, and that's not the only way we are related, as he is my grandfather and my niece (I don't remember how that came about, but the charts don't lie). Rest assured that in matters of business these familial ties in no way affect how we treat each other. The family couldn't function if we did.

I profoundly apologize for the insinuation; As a non-Sigurdr, I sometimes see nepotism where none, obviously, could exist. The curse of not being a genius.

Hmmph. Yes. Well, as I was saying, the producer has assembled a crack team of enthusiastic stuntmen and stuntwomen to experiment and innovate based on the historical sources in an attempt to recreate the half-Bødvar, and progress reports are promising. They are hard at work and under the circumstances the casualty rate is quite reasonable. It is premature to claim success, of course, but it is the first large scale attempt at recreation since the 19th century, and that experiment was an ethical nightmare using condemned prisoners. I am fairly confident that today's professionals will succeed where generations of amateurs, no matter how willing, or unwilling as the case might be, have failed.

Well, there you have it from the man himself. Don't try to reinvent the half-Bødvar on your kitchen table or work desk – leave it in the hands of the professionals, and watch Born to Breed: House of the Prophets – the Movie!

It might interest you to know, that they are recording the team cracking the half-Bødvar, in happy anticipation of the profits of a subsequent documentary. I suggested they name it “Raid and Capture”, but was overruled. They are using “Raiders of the Lost Art” as a working tile. It works, I guess.

AUDIENCE: APPLAUSE.

Documentaries are all well and good, but I am sure I speak for all your fans, Sigurd, when I say that we'd love a self-help book from your hand with illustrations, Inbreeding style, especially if your lovely wives help out.

No promises, but duties permitting, I suspect my fifth wife would be up for that.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Nineteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part fifteen -
the world of 933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31

Dear Diary,

I have been too busy the past days to write, but now I have time to record the momentous events.

Two days ago uncle Baldr died.

Two days ago I was proclaimed High King. It was awesome. Sacrificing all the prisoners I had inherited with my trusty sword, saving only cousin Alfhildr since killing family members would be an inauspicious start of my reign. Carving my way through the sacrifices in a rampage of blood and flying limbs as the sacrifices tried fight or flight, with little success at either, that's the life! It sealed my holiness in the eyes of those with wits to see, and it gave me an appetite for dinner.

It was also a great savings not having to feed them any longer. I don't know why uncle Baldr had let them accumulate like that. As for cousin Alfhildr, I wonder why he imprisoned her. I asked, but nobody recalled. Perhaps I should let her go. Show my compassionate side.

Yesterday we buried uncle Baldr. It was great fun presiding as Fylkir as the family came together to put him under stone, and though most were nursing epic hangovers, we did so with dignity. I impressed them all by showing off my newly designed emblem of the High Kingdom, Odin's Raven flying over the waves, and told them that from now on all maps should use use dark red to represent Denmark, because the colour of blood was more theologically appropriate.

But... Seeing the high and mighty of the realm gathered, most of them cousins and many of them despicable feudalists of the worst sort who'd rather oppress the little Dane with a sword than treat him as a free man, and all of them willing to flatter me, and most of them untrustworthy, also served to remind me of something I already knew: I lacked friends and allies. Being High King is all well and good, but if I want to stop the creeping feudalism or even roll it back, I'll need strong supporters. While I've not expended much effort making friends in the past, how hard can it be? For am I not Sverker, most genial of men and in cunning unsurpassed?

Today should have been a day for relaxation, and it would have been, had my little witch not brought an uncomfortable topic to my attention in the afternoon after sending Kráka to watch the children. Specifically, my wives, the lack of. Kings had always had four wives since the time of my grandpa the prophet, and I only had two. Not only the Grand Plan, but common decency as well, required that I marry more wives, and soon.

“After all, are two really enough for the Man with the Iron Rod?” she asked, teasingly.

“I only ever wanted one!” I interjected.

“Now you are just being unreasonable. We've been over this before.“ she said, decisively.

She was right. I was, and we had. Like it or not, the number of wives was seen as a status symbol, and both grandpa Sigurdr and uncle Baldr had four wives, and once Baldr had become High King his new lesser kings had started taking three wives. All except me, in fact. But now I ruled it all it really wouldn't do for me to be seen as lesser, certainly not with the changes I intended. I should count myself lucky she didn't insist that my status as High King required me to fulfil her old fantasy of having a vast herd of wives to manage.

Now, logically, on the one hand, if a man can't be unreasonable when faced with the inevitable, when can he be? On the other hand, she'd already delayed pushing another wife on me for months – I'd expected her to strike right after I was granted the kingship of Denmark, and realistically, how bad could it be? It had worked out better with Kráka than I had expected, after all.

“Right you are, little witch. But only one more for now. Please don't double the burden in one fell stroke.” I said, perhaps unwisely.

“Do you consider your wives a burden, my stallion? Think carefully before you answer,” she answered me.

“Slip of the tongue, I meant nothing of the sort”, I responded hastily, and began fabricating as fast as my hungover brain could come up with an excuse, ”What I meant was that it is a burden for you managing a new wife and fitting her into your schedule; Even with Kráka, whom you brought up yourself, it took some time for everything to work smoothly, and if we added two newcomers at once, that would just complicate matters, so better spread them out over time and add the fourth months from now, right? Unless they were identical twins, I guess.” Oh Odin, I didn't say that. Curse this hangover!

“Well, there's a thought... and I'm grateful for your concern” she replied, teasingly, with a wicked glint in the eye, “but I'm not so feeble I can't handle at least two newcomers without a sweat, and your point about twins is well taken. I'm an identical twin myself after all, and there's something to what you say. It might be easier handling twins, at that, and more economic too. Two for the price of one. You've certainly given me something to think about. Perhaps I was hasty bringing this up today, while you are not at your best. Would you prefer we waited to tomorrow when your head is clear, beloved?”

And give her another day to plan, now including identical twins as a way of pressing even more wives on me? I froze and my mind kept flashing HERD ALERT! For one ghastly moment, I saw myself dead, trampled by a stampede of wives. Is it any wonder I panicked?

But only briefly. My quick wits carried the day.

“Enough about me. Don't pay attention to my stray ale-sodden thoughts. I am sure you have a great candidate already on hand and are just dying to tell me, right?” I said hopefully. “I'm dying to know. Can't wait to get married. I'm raring to go and ready to roger. Can't be worse than the last week of playing Kráka's games blindfolded.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, carefully.

“In fact”, I said, gripped by what at the time felt like divine inspiration, “perhaps we can hold the marriage ceremony tonight? By happy coincidence it is Friday, the ideal day for marriage. The family is assembled, which is convenient. And I can hustle together a ritual justifying a quick marriage for the Fylkir-High King, fresh ploughing symbolizing the vitality of the realm or something like that. I think I can sober up in time, strike while the iron is hot, sow religious oats, and harvest in time for breakfast. Win-win. Err.. You know what I mean.”

“Indeed I do. Well, if you insist and are up to it, I shall not delay you. You'll be pleased to know that my first choice is present for the funeral, a filly who is beautiful, spirited, and of high birth, the perfect trophy wife. She also has hips made for babies. She is one of your cousins, prime Sigurdr soil and ready for the ploughing. No previous owner.” she said.

“How lovely. Yet another inexperienced young thing filled with energy, who has to be taught the realities of life. How about a mature widowed Duchess instead, preferably landed? Somebody who knows what's what, and”, I added with sudden inspiration, “has the experience to help you manage the household so you can concentrate on the Grand Plan? Do you have any such amongst your choices?”

“That's not going to happen on my watch unless she's young, my stallion. I want them young, fertile, and with at least two decades of use for breeding before they are put out to pasture.” she replied, “the more wives you've got, the less time you have for each, so youth and fertility is paramount for the successful pursuit of the Grand Plan unless pursuing a high turnover strategy, and that, I suspect, would make you cranky.”

“Put out to pasture?” I asked, wondering.

“Just my little joke,” she replied. And perhaps it was.

“Fair enough, little witch. Let's do it your way. Who is it?”

“Well, it is like this. Kráka misses her sister.”

“...”

“Sverker?”

“You are not talking about her younger sister Dalla, who is not quite of marriageable age yet, but with a bit of fudging of the numbers would pass muster, are you?”

“I am not.”

“Please tell me that you are not talking about Sif. That would be ridiculous.”

“While I agree that Sif would not otherwise seem an obvious candidate, as she'll do nothing to strengthen your ties to that branch of the family that Kráka does not already do, and while choosing Sif was not originally my idea, it is a practical solution to a present problem and she certainly lives up to my criteria.”

“You do realize, of course, that Sif utterly despises me”, I said.

“Since when did you care about women's feelings?”

“...and she'll do her best to make my life a living hell?”

“You thrive on challenges, my stallion. That which does not kill you makes you stronger!”

“...and that she's bethrothed to Duke Hugh and they are to marry in a few months”

“You are the Fylkir and head of the Dynasty. You can break their bethrothal and put him in his place.

Well, yes, I could. It would piss off his branch of the family, but I could.

“...and that thawing the Ice Maiden from within is a children's story?”

“Some like it hot, my stallion, and anyway, I have it on good authority that somebody already broke that barrier.”

“OHO! Cousin Hugh is going to be so pissed if she's been experimenting before marriage. It is her right, of course, so long as she's not engaging in adultery, but I could have sworn just a few months past little Sif was all high-and-mighty 'I'll never let anybody have ME! I'll never bear children!' - or perhaps Hugh did more than talk to her when they met earlier this week? I thought that first meeting ran long.”

“Not Hugh, but you are dead on with the timing.”

“But she's been here all week, staying with Kráka most of the time.... Wincenty then! Twelve years old and already boldly going where no man has gone before. Didn't think the lad had it in him, but he's my son after all!”

“Beloved, our son is nine. He's precocious, but not that precocious.”

“A handy henchman then? Which could it be? Bah. I tire of this guessing game. Anyway, not important. Give me one solid reason I should marry Sif”, I said.

“Kráka wants it”

“Irrelevant.”

“I am in favour of it”

“Relevant, but not good enough; surely you have candidates that don't loathe me. You said this was your first choice, not your only choice.”

“It is Sif's idea.”

“So she not only despises me, she's crazy as well? That's supposed to convince me how? Why in the name of Odin...”

“I'd say desperate rather than crazy; Her meeting with your cousin Hugh last week was the first time they met in many years, and it shocked her to the core. She'd been warned that he had issues, of course. All of the Normans do. But she went straight to Kráka afterwards and said that Hugh didn't just have issues, he had subscriptions, and that she'd rather be a Queen violated by a pig than a Duchess made to squeal like one by the butcher.”

“I am not marrying Sif out of pity.”

“I wasn't suggesting you do, beloved. I was being tactful approaching a delicate subject, since you are unlikely to be completely tranquil, shall we say, once you learn her plan of conquest.”

“Her what? Be less tactful, little witch. I can handle it.”

“Her plan to conquer you and wed you. Her story is that you've been screwing her brains out for a week while she was your guest, my stallion.”

“WHAT!?”

“She threatens that if you don't marry her, then once she marries Hugh, she'll go public and mar your kingship with a scandal about how you lusted after her and ignored guest-right, violating her repeatedly. The King with the Iron Rod showing his true colours. Unless you have her quietly killed, of course, but she's smart; she's probably thought of insurance.”

“Not a bad plan, really. If you are going to lie, go big. That would definitely raise a stink. But a short-term one. No witnesses, and if I had her killed, out of sight, out of mind. Kráka would be sad, of course, but can't be helped. I know how to cheer her up. No, it won't wash. Sounds like Sif will have to learn the hard way, that if you mess with the best, you die like the rest.”

“I'm afraid she'd have a witness: Kráka.”

“That sly bitch would betray me and lie for her sister? I knew she wasn't trustworthy. I'll have her killed too! Don't dare tell me to spare her for the sake of the Grand Plan. There are some things up with which I will not put!”

“You know her better than that. Kráka does not lie. Mislead, confuse, and play games with your head, yes. Lie, no.”

“Explain. Now.”

“Kráka and Sif are old hands at plotting together. You've probably forgotten, but years ago when Kráka nearly got you at Yuletime? It was Sif who sent you looking for the Cordoban Jewel. And just recently, we made use of her in the matter of Egill. Now, Sif knows her big sister well, and the sweet thing really is besotted with you, so when Sif laid her plan to conquer you in desperation, she knew better than to present it to Kráka as a plot against you.”

“I'm listening.”

“She presented it as a game.”

“...and Kráka loves games.”

“Yes. Since Kráka loves both you and her sister, and since the proposed game was intriguing, it took little to persuade her. So Kráka went to me with a sob story about how hard she was taking her father's wasting away, and asked if I'd be willing to trade her my days this week for some of hers in the future to help her cope and, as you know, I agreed. It seemed a reasonable enough request to me; You are always a great comfort when I'm feeling down, after all.”

“I do my best, little witch!”

“I know, my stallion. But to return to Sif's conquest, she then had Kráka tell us about her meetings with Hugh, omitting the detail that they had already met once, and Kráka invented a new game, Darkest Dungeon, and you've been playing that all week and, as far as I can tell, having great fun.”

“We didn't play Darkest Dungeon all week, fortunately. We also played Blind Man's Bluff and Spelunking For Two. She's very inventive.”

“She sure is, but all games had this in common: They were not two-player games, but three-player games.”

“...And they were all conducted in darkness, and in addition I was blindfolded for the first two, and in Spelunking my cave-diving partners wore costumes that covered everything but certain areas critical to the game. And Kráka and Sif are much the same height and have much the same body build, as is not uncommon amongst siblings. I see where this is going, but it is ridiculous. And infamous! But wait! It can't have been Sif. It was definitely Kráka; Even if, for the sake of argument, I didn't notice minor differences of body due to being otherwise preoccupied, I'd know her hairstyle anywhere. The way her braid whips me when she's in the throes of passion is distinctive. I don't need sight for that! Sif's hairstyle is quite different: Two short braids. By their hair shall I know them!”

“This may shock you, Sverker, but it is possible for a woman to change the way she styles her hair.”

“It is? But you've had the same since you were a child. Excepting only when you bathe and your lush hair garbs your naked body in a raiment of purity, you braid it in twin braids with red ribbons. I love it.”

“And that's why I do it, beloved. I could stop it any time I want. But I don't want to when it makes you happy.”

“Oh, I see. Never thought of it that way. I just thought women got set in their ways early, their primitive brains unable to contemplate a future with different hair. I mean, my mother never changed her hair style, Sis never changed hers, Frogsis only changed hers after that unfortunate scissors accident (which was definitely not my fault), and both you and Kráka never changed yours since childhood. It seemed the natural conclusion.”

“Interesting. Well, however logical and well reasoned your belief, it is wrong. To return to the matter on hand, each night Kráka led you to her stall, told you the game for the night, and went behind her screen to change costume while you extinguished the candles and got naked. Then Sif, who had been hiding behind the screen (and, yes, had styled her hair like Kráka) went to you. And events proceeded as one might expect, while Kráka took notes on performance from behind the screen. When you were done, they changed Sif's hair back the way it were. Each morning Kráka critiqued Sif's actions and designed the evening's roles as an even greater challenge to Sif. This explains the ever more complex roles you contended with during the week.”

It was monstrous. But I could see it working, with Sif and Kráka exchanging places after each bout and Kráka explaining the next challenge. At least it explained Kráka's, no dammit, Sif's, squeaky voice being different from what I was used to. And great and lustry Freyr take heed, Sif was a quick study or very well coached. But that was rather missing the point. A worthless digression.

“It probably wouldn't have worked if they weren't so much alike, but on the other hand you tend to be remarkably single-minded once you get to grips, so who knows.”

“When did you find out?”

“I first suspected something was wrong the day after she arrived, actually. But certainly not that! She complained about having had a nightmare and falling out of bed, and she did seem stiff like somebody who'd not had a good night of sleep, and if you'd paid attention to her, you'd have noticed that Sif was walking a bit awkwardly that day and occasionally appeared to catch herself daydreaming or looking utterly disgusted, as somebody processing a new experience they were unsure how they felt about, but...”

“I don't pay attention to women. Noted.”

“Anyhow, I considered the evidence and concluded it was none of my business if Sif had discovered a new source of entertainment. Good for her. Two days later, however, it clearly was my business. She had the PGSS look.”

“The WHAT?”

“Oh, that's just what Kráka and I call the Pelvic Girdle Sledgehammer Slammed look for jokes and giggles. You know, 'Wow, you look PGSS today. Busy night, was it?' It is the stunned bunny expression combined with the very distinctive gait one gets after being on the receiving end of several half-Bødvars. At least the way you do it. It is an easily recognizable look, when you know it, and Sif had it. How in the name of Freyja did you manage to do it blindfolded? I wouldn't have thought it possible.”

“It isn't. Trust me on this. But I don't like your name for it - does it hurt a lot? If you've been hurting all these years...”

“It's fine, my stallion. Doesn't hurt a bit. Well, nothing worth mentioning, anyway. No pain, no gain, is what I say.”

“Good. You had me worried for a moment. But I digress. I'm afraid your timeline fits: That would be the morning after the first Spelunking For Two game, where I encountered a frisky female Svartalf at the bottom of a cave (don't ask). Continue, please.”

“Knowing better than to try collaring the cunning vixen, I went to Kráka and made her divulge the details,” my little witch said.

“So you have known for five days, and you told me nothing? Why, in the name of the High One did you not tell me earlier!” I erupted.

“As to that, my stallion, my initial thought was to alert you right away, but then it struck me: I don't understand men. The damage was already done, and whether you screwed her for three days, for a week, or even for two, it would make no difference to the public, should you refuse to marry Sif and fail to silence her, since the important thing would be your violation of guest-right. And you seemed to be having great fun. There was a twinkle in your eye and spring in your step this week, that had been missing for some time.” she answered me calmly.

“But,” I began, and got no further before she killed my objection, that this was because of my happy anticipation of uncle Baldr's impending death rather than Kráka's games, with an argument that I could hardly refute. Alas.

“So since continuing put you in no imminent danger, I recalled your wise words on this issue from Kráka's wedding and left you in ignorance for a few days so you could discover the deception in your own time or, perhaps, be told by Sif, if she felt secure in her new intimacy with you. Perhaps you'd end up laughing it off. Do you feel like laughing, beloved?”

“No.”

“You should. Because, you see, I remembered something else. I always pay attention to you, as you know, and once upon a time you taught me an important lesson. Do you remember the splendid morning after our wedding?”

Of course I remembered. It was one of my favourite memories: “I remember waking to your hair gently caressing my cheek, and looking up into your azure eyes for the first time, little witch, thinking that I could drown in them.”

“Always the romantic, my stallion,” she said, looking at me fondly, “but that's not what I was referring to. I remember every word you spoke that glorious morning, and you suggested my sister Gizella for your second wife. Keeping it in the family, as it were. Of course, while Gizella had my perfect body, she didn't have my wits, so it was not to be, but your desire was clear. Perhaps you'd even have preferred me without my wits. But I was the one who got you!”

Had I really said that? That would be madness speaking. Why would I do that? Where was she going with this?

“So CLEARLY, you had no objections to marrying sisters – you wanted it the very morning after your wedding to one sister, even knowing full well that the other sister hated you ever since the pond incident, and you have not changed – you even mentioned your lust for sisters just a short time ago, when you brought up the issue of twins.” she said, triumphantly.

“I'm sure that's not what I meant”, I interjected, but she wasn't listening.

“So if you are now objecting to marrying Kráka's sister Sif, who wants to marry you and is perfect for the Grand Plan, merely because she has a mild aversion to you and you are feeling slightly peeved about this week's game, but wanted to marry my sister Gizella, who hated you and was ill suited for the Grand Plan, what am I to think? Is Kráka that much better than me, that you want her, and only her, while with me you couldn't wait to lay claim to the body of my sister, an inferior copy, suggesting to me that you wed her right after our wedding,” she said furiously.

“That's a low blow, little witch. You know I don't think like that. I don't find Kráka better than you, and I must have been joking about Gizella.”

“The 'only a joke' defense. Why did I expect better of you? You don't understand women, after all. I am sure everything seems perfectly reasonable from where you are sitting, my stallion”, she sighed, unhappily.

“You are manipulating my feelings with this ridiculous idea that I love Kráka more.”

“I didn't use the word love, my stallion,” my little witch sniffled.

“Confound it. That was a slip of the tongue!”

“If you say so. I apologize for worrying you so. Perhaps it is time that I accept the fact that Kráka is better than me and let the better woman take the lead. I'm growing old, after all.” she said, trying to hold back tears.

“Look, just moments ago I was threatening to kill Kráka. If that doesn't show who I love the most of my wives, I don't know what will”

“I guess it does. It is your right to love your wives as you please, my lord, and love and hatred are but two sides of the same coin”, she continued, crying.

“Little witch?” I said.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered.

“Knock if off. It is not funny any longer, if ever it were.”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered.

“Will killing Kráka and Sif make you happy?”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered.

“Would you like me to shave off my beard, stuff an apple up my arse, and walk around naked in the street flapping my arms like a chicken while repeatedly saying, 'I'm sorry I pissed you off, Viola'?” I asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered.

“...you've got to be kidding”

“I didn't quite hear that; was that a question, my lord?” she asked.

“No, no. Perish the thought. Now, where's an apple when you really need it...”

“In the basket to your right, my lord,” she answered.

“I didn't mean it! Blast and bebother! Will you knock it off and agree I love you the most if in return I agree to disregard this week's irregularities and marry Sif?”

“Yes, my stallion.”

“How serendipitous. Well, what are you waiting for? Call her in, little witch.”

“Right you are, my stallion! One wife-to-be coming right up!” she responded, secure in her victory, and Sif was practically falling over her own feet to report for duty when called.

“My, my, that was quick, little witch. One could almost believe she'd been waiting outside the door.”

“Serendipity!”

There being no graceful way to follow up that would leave my dignity unscathed, I turned to Sif, and seeing her standing there, defiant, arrogant, and unyielding, disgust on her face, I nearly repented of my promise, but in a contest between the good will of my little witch and my wroth there can be only one winner.


“Hello, Sif. You've been very naughty. You have abused your guest-right, and are clearly guilty of premeditated adultery, unusual and possibly unnatural seduction, ensnaring your sister in a plot against me, and several other charges I could drum up if I felt like it. Frankly, the easiest solution would be to kill you on either secular or religious grounds or because it would please me, and don't think for a moment that I would hesitate to do so, as it would provide a much desired finality to this ridiculous situation,” I said, calmly.

“I see,” Sif replied, equally calmly.

“However, your life has been saved by somebody who is infinitely more worthy than you, as my little witch has convinced me that this would be wasteful of your potential, since you are a perfect fit for her breeding program. Also, Kráka would be sad, and I can't have that. So what I am getting at is that you've won. Congratulations, your conquest is done, and it is complete. I will marry you this very night. But I will give you something to reflect on, as you savour your victory. Tonight, when we are alone, proud schemer, will you, nill you, I'll screw you seven days to Sunday.” I thundered, righteously!

“That doesn't make any sense. It is only Friday! So two days at most, and that's if you forego sleep.” Sif answered, seemingly unshaken.

“Very funny. What I mean is, I will do my worst, unconstrained by Kráka's games. I will not hold back or treat you tenderly. Now what, pray tell, do you think of that? Are you regretting your choice?”

“You were holding back until now? I can't say I noticed, great Violator. And as for treating me tenderly, if you think that's what you've been doing, you must have me confused for my sister! If you'll pardon my little joke.”

“Hah. Hah. This is my funny face. Read my lips: There will be NO. MORE. GAMES.”

“Whatever you say, pig. I hear your command, and obey.”

And so it came to be that I married my third wife, Sif, who'll no doubt do her best to make my private life a living hell. She behaved perfectly in public for the surprise wedding; When I started the day's feast by revealing as Fylkir, in a truly hypocritical speech, the necessity for the High King to have at least three wives at all times, likening them of all things to the three Norns (I blame my hangover), she was as rapt as anybody in the crowd, and when I made my surprise public proposal to make her that third wife immediately afterwards, she accepted to all eyes with profound joy, and her mother, Dowager Queen Praxida, praised my choice. I suspect collusion.

Nobody could have been more graceful or hung more devotedly on my every word at the feast thereafter or looked more lovingly at me when I finally carried her off for the bedchamber, but once we were in private...

...I discovered she wore chainmail underwear attached to an iron belt, snugly fitting her slim waist, and fitted with a combination lock of her own design, which was, she triumphantly told me, impossible to remove without the combination or blacksmith's tools.

What's worse, she appeared to be right. Would I really have to solve this blacksmith's puzzle or concede defeat on our wedding night?

But am I not built like a bear, able to tear apart chainmail with my bare hands? Am I not of the line of Odin Glapsviðr, who can charm any lock – or woman? Am I not Sverker, High King and Fylkir, most cunning of men?

Of course I am, on a good day at any rate, at least if I say so myself, but frankly, I was also slightly drunk, which made me marginally less cunning, agile, and able to direct my strength with precision.

So in this particular case, it was rather more helpful that I am also the husband of Kráka, who had cheerfully sold out her sister by telling me Sif's greatest weaknesses as a wedding present.

And she was right: An impregnable fortress that will never fall to frontal assault may yet be betrayed from within, yielding to its conqueror, its gates opened willingly by the loser in a high stakes turn based wargame of my own devising.

Sif really should have known better than agreeing to play a game with each conflict resolution determined by a tickling contest scored against a conflict resolution table, given how very, very, ticklish she is, but as I had been told, Sif loves wargaming, is ticklish, and highly competitive. Perhaps she underestimated my resolve.

So I lied about there being no more games, and she really hated losing. But fate is a cruel mistress and turnabout is fair play.

This is the first time I've tickled anybody into submission, but if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well, and I am beginning to understand Kráka's joy in creating conflict resolution tables favouring their creator's preferred outcome. A most enlightening exercise, and tickling certainly beats ripping apart iron underwear being both more entertaining and less harmful to the wearer.

Looking at her now, a sleeping beauty, she looks contented, and I feel that I could, in time, come to appreciate her. Perhaps the quick wit, flashes of humour, and attention to details she showed after her surrender, when we negotiated penalties and set about carrying them out, one by one, learning the ways of the other's body anew without a blindfold or a need to roleplay weird roles complicating matters, is the true Sif. Perhaps it shows her true heart, a generous heart I could learn to love, given time. Perhaps this is all for the better, and today marks the beginning of a long and beautiful companionship.

And perhaps not.

More likely those feelings are a result of temporary insanity, as I am out of my mind and ready to drop due to delayed shock from the afternoon's revelations, a lack of sleep, a drain of vital essence from my primary brain to power my secondary, and being incurably romantic. An old softy, really.

It probably won't stop her from making a living hell of my life tomorrow, but a man can hope.

Either way, I can't wait to see her face, when she is introduced to the scoreboard. She can't have avoided seeing it while living here, and Kráka must have told her all about it, but tomorrow her name gets added to it and she gets her name on a stall. No matter how well prepared she thinks she is, having my little witch in charge of her life is going to be a revelation.

It might be time for a small war to escape the household for a while and please the wider family with loot, and I've got the perfect opportunity. Cousin Arnfast of Poitou is claiming my English crown backed by a few of the more dimwitted family members, an early test of my strength, the first of many, and I cannot be seen to falter. He'll make a good target for a demonstration of my resolve.

Author's note:

With the accession of Sverker to the High Kingship and the intensification of High Queen Viola's Grand Plan, I am enabling a private birth control mod I created for this game, The Emperor's Children, replacing the mod I have been using until now, More Babies For Counts and Dukes.

Like the previous mod, my own mod increases the number of children for Counts and Dukes by a bit, making AI line extinction less likely, but in addition to this it significantly increases the number of children an Emperor-tier ruler can have before the game stops testing for random pregnancies.

If Sverker wants to limit his number of children, he'll have to keep IT in his pants or get rid of his wives.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 5 -
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day, addendum

Dear Diary,

I must put this down in writing lest I forget.

After I had written my Diary, I extinguished the final candle and lay down to sleep... But it was not to be. The next thing I remember is pain in my chest and waking to find Sif floating above me in the darkness while pounding my chest with her tiny fists, shouting that Archimedes never accepted mechanical failure as an excuse, and neither would she. And it seemed to me that I heard Iyana whispering “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” in my ear.

The world shook as if struck by Thor's hammer, and she was straddling me, and her hands were all over me, searching the darkness for something. Sif, that is. Not Iyana. That would have been stupid.

With a mighty cry of “EUREKA!”, which means, “I found IT!” in Greek, she went on to prove that with a place to sit, a fulcrum, and a firm grip on one end of the lever, she could move the world. Archimedes would have been green with envy. She did it again, and again, and all I could do was instruct her to stop and let me sleep, but she ignored my commands.

Next I recall running around the bed with Sif in hot pursuit, shouting that she just wanted to experience the Archimedes' Screw, while I argued in vain that her crops had received all the irrigation they needed. That was quite strange, even by the standards of my household. So strange, in fact, that my fear fled and I felt a surge of relief as I realized that I was dreaming.

I do NOT beg, and I do NOT run from women. They run from me. A particularly lucid dream was the only explanation, but I had been working hard for weeks for the kingship and Sif had certainly put me through my paces. I am not as young as I used to be. So no wonder I was too exhausted to fend off a nightmare! All I had to do was endure the nightmare until I woke, so I relaxed in my sleep, determined to wait it out and curious what it would come up with next.

“Do your worst”, I told it. And it did.

Suddenly I was drowning in a still lake, and could only save myself by holding on to Sif's floatation devices while being lectured about the buoyancy principle, and all the while I wanted to scream and had no voice, because it was muffled by the warm waters closing in on my head from both sides.

I rather stopped paying attention to it after that.

The nightmare's work was silly, strange, and awful. But mostly silly. I do NOT beg. I do NOT run from women. And I do NOT drown. I am an excellent swimmer. But that's nightmares for you. They make no sense and try to take advantage of your insecurities. Fortunately I have none to speak of, so it had to get creative, and soon enough it gave up and I woke up.

Though come to think of it, the Archimedes references do make warped sense. While my secondary brain was running the show during the night's entertainment, my primary brain must have been thinking of reading up on Isidore of Miletos' edition of Archimedes' Mechanical Curiosities, part of the loot from my great raid on Cordoba, because unless I recall wrongly it has a possible answer to a present difficulty. So in desperation at finding no insecurities, the nightmare used whatever it could find.

So I am writing down the nightmare to remind myself to read Archimedes, and to shake that unnatural feeling of helplessness. Done. That was easy. And now that I have done so, I must sleep. Hopefully I'll dream a better dream this time. Is it too much to ask the gods for a dream of my little witch?

Well, yes, it probably is. But I am Sverker, High King, and I demand of them my due! Respectfully, goes without saying.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twentieth: The Sverker Diaries, part sixteen -
the world of 933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +1

Dear Diary,

The gods listened! I owe them a sacrifice. I did dream of my little witch!

In the dream we were riding in a forest, on a morning in spring, and the sun's gentle light shining through the canopy shone upon my little witch, and we were talking sweet nonsense, and it was pretty bloody romantic if you ask me, just a man and his wife sharing a wholesome riding trip together without any politics or murders or Great Plan this or Great Plan that, when suddenly we were surrounded by bandits! A lot of bandits.

The biggest baddest bandit of them all threatened me: “Your money or your wife!”

That was an easy one: “That'll be number two. I've got a spare: 17 years old, conventional beauty, hardly used. Her name is Sif, and she's a goer. Shake on it?”

“Sif? You've got to be kidding me. We've all heard of her. I want THAT one,” the bandit said, pointing at Viola, and continued, “I love a girl with spirit!”

My little witch rolled her eyes and told them that now they'd done it, and weren't they a sorry excuse for bandits, but I stopped paying attention as red mist clouded my vision and I took my trusty sword and struck them down and built a mountain of their skulls that reached the sky, and dedicated this, their final apology, to my little witch.

Then we sat by a lake in the forest playing a kissing game while morning turned to noon, and I got drowsy and laid my weary head in her lap. She gently caressed me and chatted about our children and our plans for empire, and I told her something I do not do often enough. That I loved her, and only her, and couldn't live without her, and she called me her silly old bear, and her mighty stallion, and the most valiant champion on life. As I lay there at rest gazing up in those beloved azure eyes, I knew that all was well in the world and that even Valhalla could not compare, and that moments like these were what made life worth living, even were they but dreams. (Even blissed out as I were, there was no doubt in my mind that I was dreaming. That she did not mention the Grand Plan even once was a dead giveaway.)

And then we were swimming in the waters of the lake and we playfully fought in the water the way we did when we were newly married, though these days it is hard to find the time or privacy, and as always Viola fought dirty, and suddenly we were ashore but our clothes had disappeared, and I wanted to look for them, but she got a wicked glint in her eye and asked me to give her a green gown instead, so I took her in my arms and held her tenderly for a moment before carefully laying her on the grass, and it was her turn to gaze lovingly up at me as I descended upon her from above, and a hideous voice out of nowhere screamed, “ARISE IN MIGHT!”, and the sunlight disappeared and Viola vanished with a wail into the darkness and I drifted, bereft of sensation, and suddenly I was lying on sheets rather than grass and I felt the not unpleasant sensation of delicate fingers tracing the scars on my chest, while unbound hair caressed my face.

I thought for a moment my little witch had returned, but the idyllic scene was marred by the gnashing of teeth, a most penetrating sound. How peculiar.

I peeked from under my eyelids, and saw a golden orb hurtling out of a pinkish sky towards my chest to crush me, then retract into the heavens, then fall again. It was a divine yo-yo, and the effect was strangely compelling. I opened them slightly more, and realized my error. It was Sif lying on her side and leaning over me. She wore a deranged half-smile on her face, and I concluded that I was still dreaming, my wonderful dream of my little witch having taken a very strange turning.

Spoiler: ”Possibly NSFW in narrowminded societies”

Obviously the nightmare was back for round two, shunting Viola aside to a corner of my mind as the dream faded. But nobody puts my little witch in a corner, be they man or monster! (Gods and sufficiently large Jotuns – well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.) The nightmare had gone too far this time, so quick as lightning I grabbed a breast and gave it a good honk. That would teach it!

...That sounds silly in writing, but it seemed a fitting punishment to my sleeping mind and everybody does stupid things in dreams on occasion.

Granted, it turned out I was awake rather than asleep, but how was I to know? I thought I was sleeping. It was a natural mistake anybody could have made. But no nightmare would have responded as Sif did.

“Your vile animal lust betrays you, Great Violator”, she announced, slapping my face, “and I know what you are planning. Can't waste all day sleeping when you've got a victim to ravish, can you? But know, oh lustful king, that I am neither playing wargames today nor engaging in tickling contests. What I gave freely on my wedding night is the last you'll ever have of me willingly. You may overpower my frail body with your beastly strength, you may force my gate with your loathsome instrument, but I shall suffer any indignity with stoicism!”

She was working herself into a state of frenzy, but that doesn't excuse bad similes, and the “loathsome instrument” line needed work. So I helpfully suggested to her that comparing IT to a battering ram would work better in the context, and if that didn't work for her (one must make allowances for stylistic differences), she could always ask her sister for help.

Big mistake.

She slapped me again, and she is stronger than she looks. I had to grab her arm to prevent receiving a backhand slap, and then the other arm to immobilize her. At arms length, she stared down at me with hate. It was a ridiculous position, having to fend off my wife. How my little witch would laugh.

But did that stop Sif? Of course not. “The assault begins and I am helpless in your arms! NOW DO YOUR WORST, Great Violator! “, she continued unabated, and with a determined stare right in my eyes ended the rant with, “But know that I will NEVER GIVE UP, NEVER SURRENDER!”

“Shan't. Don't want you. Want to sleep,” I told her. I released her arms and shut my eyes tightly. It had been such a good dream.

Whatever answer she had expected, this was not it. But say this to her credit, she rallied gamely.

“A likely story. The tenting at your loins proves you a liar! You are just waiting for me to let down my guard to have at me, you randy swine!”

“Oh, that. IT tends to do that when I dream of my little witch. Your sister finds it funny, but admittedly she has a warped sense of humour. I once woke up to find she had... Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Sif, please be a good girl and pipe down and let me sleep. If you want to be useful, go away and do woman stuff. You officially qualify now. Congratulations.”

“Even as you are relishing ravishing my weak and defenceless body and readying yourself to renew the assault, you are thinking of another woman!?!?”

She was not going to let me sleep.

Perhaps it was time for some good old-fashioned ravishing after all, despite my exhaustion. It was what she expected, and I had kind of promised, and it was her morning after... As plans go, it had the virtue of simplicity and my secondary brain was all in favour. All I had to do was hand over control and deal with the problem of Sif later.

But in a flash of insight I saw the future clearly. She would consider it vindication of her silly girlish beliefs, and the Norns' web would tighten around me, setting me on the path of eternal nagging.

My heart sank as I realized that three months had not matured Sif, no matter what Kráka said, and becoming my wife had not changed her at all, despite my winsome nature and how eagerly she'd participated once I'd jollied her up last night. If I continued as both tradition and reason demanded, I would come to dread the s-nights, and mornings. I had invited misery into the household. All was lost.

Or was it? Am I one to give up? What Would Viola Do?

...Well, come to think of it, I knew what she would do. She would grin at me, slap my rump, and cheer me on with a “Tally-ho, my stallion! Up and at'er!“

Or she would sigh wearily, and say, “If you worked harder for the Grand Plan, Sif would be too exhausted to pester you”.

Or she would get a steely look in her eyes, as she occasionally does when I overthink issues, and instruct me to “Screw harder, not smarter.” How Kráka had laughed when she heard it for the first time.

Sometimes WWVD isn't the best source of advice.

Then I got an idea.
An awful idea.
The KING
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

I smothered a grin and counterfeited an earnest, but confused, look, as I embarked upon a campaign of seduction that whether I win or lose is bound to amuse. It was time to answer her question.

“Well, it is like this, Little Violator,” I replied calmly and rationally, “she is my little witch, while you are just an opportunist. You suborned my dear wife Kráka. You raped me by deception for a week. You extorted me to take you as my third wife. Either of these would justify your destruction.

A hit, a palpable hit, and before she could get a word in edgewise, I continued: “But I spared your life, and I have married you as you demanded, ceremony and all, and I have satisfied your base desires this night as is your right as my wife, and I'll see you honoured as the third most important woman in the High Kingdom. I respect your victory, but I really don't see what else I owe you.”

“As is MY right?” she screamed, focusing rather narrowly on that minor issue. “You satisfied nobody's lust but your own,” she continued, and added, almost as an afterthought, “loathsome boar.” She was definitely off script.

“I'm not expecting any gratitude from you, my tempestuous wife, though I do think any reasonable man would say that I deserve so for saving you from the Normans and not solving the problem you present by reducing headcount, but the least you can do is let me sleep. I'll take a dream of Viola over your reality any day. A man's got to have his priorities straight.”

“I can't believe what I'm hearing! What happened to screwing me seven days to Sunday?” she asked, incredulously.

“Not worth the effort. You are too exhausting. It is not like it was a real promise, anyway. I only said it to mess with your head because you annoyed me. Petty, I know, but in the circumstances I'd say you had it coming. Now, I'll give you that it was a merry wedding night, but you aren't a patch on your sister, to say nothing of my little witch. You've got innate ability that under other circumstances would be worth developing into real skill, but you lack the generosity of spirit and the ability to join me in a true meeting of hearts and minds that makes it all worthwhile and makes me want to return for more.”

“What!?” she began, and whether she was rallying for another rant or just plain confused I do not know, but I cut her short.

“Let me use smaller words even a seventeen year old can understand, I love women for their beautiful minds, not their bodies,” I lied, “so you don't attract me.” A lie so great that I could feel IT growing in response, but fortunately she didn't notice.

Her eyes boggled in disbelief. Time to stick the knife in.

“So don't come begging for me to deliver, just because you are a sex-crazed rapist seeking gratification. It is undignified and I expect a certain measure of decorum in my household. Besides, I have more important things to do, such as planning a campaign once I've recovered from the night's excesses. Problems in Poitou.”

That did it. I braced myself for the storm.

“Promise? Begging you? SEX-CRAZED RAPIST!?!? Your conceit knows no limit! If I went above and beyond the penalties of that stupid tickling game I let you believe you tricked me into, it had nothing to do with desire. I was trying to beat my sister's wedding score, and I did so too!” she screamed in my face, hyperventilating, her chest heaving and her body quivering with wrath.

Since she was still leaning over me this was quite distracting, but wise to the ways of women I refrained from pointing that out to her. She ranted stupidities for some time, but being preoccupied tracking the movements of the heavenly orbs, it was all so much noise to me, and I believe we were both the happier for my sensitivity.

Finally she noticed I wasn't paying attention to her words, or possibly she noticed what I was paying attention to. Whatever the case, she sprang out of bed and from a safe distance, her face reddening, she announced in a voice dripping with ice: “So remember it fondly, for that's the last you'll ever have of me save through force. Great Violator, I defy you!”

It did detract a bit that she added as an afterthought, “And also, I'll have you know, I am NOT exhausting!”, but she's young and practice makes perfect.

I must admit I was quite impressed by her; Repetitive, for sure, but from start to finish, that was quality ranting, some of the best I've ever heard from a woman, and I've heard a lot.

“Well, you are. And noisy too. A real moaner. Not that I mind, but I wonder how far your voice carried,” I replied.

Sif looked mortified. One final dig seemed appropriate.

“Anyhow, the scoreboard needs updating. So hop along and leave me alone, Little Violator. If you want to curse me for not serving you horizontal refreshment this morning, please do so elsewhere.

I hid my head under my pillow to escape her temper tantrum. Better not let her see my grin.

Finally she left me, slamming the door, and I returned to sleep. As luck would have it, my little witch was waiting for me in my dream (she's considerate like that), so all was well in the world.

Until lunch.

It was a family gathering with my mother and my mother in law in attendance, and it was jolly. As expected everybody gently ribbed me and Sif, making jokes about the nightly entertainment. I took it like a man and joined in, providing our mothers with the occasional enlightening detail, while silently thanking Viola that despite having three wives I still only had one mother-in law. Sif on the other hand was the very ice queen, cold and distant – too foolish to accept the praise she received.

At the end of the meal my little witch proudly announced that Sif and I had set a new highscore, and she always knew I had it in me. She was so proud of her stallion that she could burst, and dowager queen Praxida wept tears of joy, as she had feared Sif would prove a disappointment, but now she was well and truly wedded and bedded. Everybody cheered our vigour. Nearly everybody. Sif hung her head in defiant shame, silly goose that she is, and her day got worse when Kráka claimed to have won the betting pool.

It turns out that after the guests had left, the women had retired to our living quarters and entertained themselves telling stories of the happy couple and betting on the final score. They found us too noisy to sleep, apparently.

I can't say I'm surprised Kráka won. She'd been present for the preceding week's games, so she knew best how to interpret her sister's ode to joy. I am surprised by the highscore, though. It hardly seems possible. I must have lost track of time.

After lunch I took my little witch aside and suggested that the bygone seven k-days be retroactively considered s-days to keep the score accurate, and that surely it was somebody else's turn tonight or Sif would end up too far ahead, but Viola explained that my concern for fairness and accurate record-keeping, though admirable in the abstract, was misguided in the particular. For a) Sif's sexual blackmail was a state secret, and b) it would be against herd rules; the week after marriage was sacred and belonged to the mare.

You win some, you lose some. It was worth the try.

I spent a few hours getting some work done, shouting at people and cracking some skulls, and relaxed afterwards reading Archimedes' Mechanical Curiosities. My mind had not played me false, and it was just as relaxing and informative as I remembered from years back when I read the complete collected works on my return trip from the business trip to Cordoba. Fond memories.

Tonight I went to Sif's stall carrying a chess set.

“The Great Violator comes!” she intoned when I entered her stall, which as a greeting leaves something to be desired, but my otherwise brilliant mind failed to come up with a proper response as I was momentarily distracted by the sight of her form-fitting chain-mail underwear. It was hard to miss as she was otherwise naked. Noticing my glance, she continued, “I assume that means you've recovered?”

“Quite recovered, thank you. Your sister waylaid me after dinner; She didn't want to fall further behind, so I gallantly helped relieve her worry,” I replied, helpfully.

“Pig! Don't assume that I'm that easy a target.”

“Perish the thought. How do you feel about a game of chess?” I asked, kindly.

“A penalty game, I assume? You aren't getting past my lock that easily,” she responded, a prisoner to her own narrative.

“I don't want to. I don't want to have anything to do with you except, perhaps, to play a relaxing game of chess before returning to my room to sleep without having to perform for the Grand Plan. I need to catch up on my beauty sleep, you know. I doubt I got more than three hours of sleep last night, and I am not as young as I used to be,” I answered, truthfully if regretfully.

Predictably, this made little impression on Sif. “Never! You are trying to trick me!” she cried, “Pretending to give up because you can't open my lock. Lulling me into a false sense of security. I see through you, pig.”

Time for the evening's masterstroke!

“Have it your way; I'll be returning to my own bed to sleep, then. You do you. Keep the chess set.” I said, cheerfully.

“Sverker! I'm not done talking!”

“But I am. Toodeloo, Little Violator.”

I left quickly, shutting the door behind me, and well I did so as within moments something struck it with a majestic thump from the other side. I hope it was a pot and not the chess set, but either way, point to me.

This is working out better than expected.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +2

Dear Diary,

This is great fun! Sif was obnoxious during the day, so tonight I went once again to her stall carrying another chess set. She greeted me with the familiar, “the Great Violator comes!” while wearing, once again, to my complete lack of surprise, nothing but her special chain-mail underwear.

“How about a game of chess?” I asked her.

“Hah! The infamous conqueror defeated before he has even tried. Why do you keep persisting rather than leaving me alone?” she crowed.

“Because I like playing chess,” I responded, earnestly.

“That's not what I meant!”

“Well, if you insist,” I said, “I'll give it a try. Be a good girl and stand still so I can access the lock's tumblers without touching you, since I know how you dislike my touch.”

She did, and I unlocked the combination lock in the first attempt, removing her underwear. “Thus is access granted, Little Violator. For I am Sverker, 'gainst whom no lock will hold, nor fastened portal bar. One of the perks of being the All-father's favoured.”

She shivered nervously, and honesty compels me to admit to my diary, if to nobody else, that with Sif so close and her scent and gorgeous body sending signals rapidly eroding my willpower, had I not been wearing special reinforced trousers the evening might have turned out differently, spoiling my plan. But my sartorial preparations paid off, so all I did was ask her, friendly as can be, “Now, how about that game of chess?”

“You aren't fooling me, Great Violator. You must have remembered the code. And as for chess, I can see your loathsome instrument straining to be free. Do your worst! You may conquer my frail body, but you will never, NEVER, conquer my soul!” she proclaimed with a strut. As an oratorical exercise it wasn't half bad, if arguably a bit primitive. The strut was good though. If you've got it, flaunt it, as Kráka often says. So 10/10 for effort.

“Oh, that's just something IT does when I open combination locks, nothing to do with you, and IT is not in charge. I'm wearing reinforced trousers these days to avoid accidents, you know. Less wear and tear on tables.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

“This isn't as relaxing as I had hoped. I'll return to my own bed and leave you to yours. Sleep well, Little Violator.”

“SVERKER!”



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +3

Dear Diary,

After opening her lock this night, Sif once more dared me to violate her, blah blah blah weak body blah blah blah unconquerable soul and blah blah blah. She needs to work on her material. And start wearing clothes. This is getting old, fast.

So I gave her a chess set to her great annoyance, and earnestly told her that she had no cause for fear, as I had never violated a woman and did not intend to start now.

How her eyes boggled.

She denounced me for a liar, repeating to me the fate of some of my foreign conquests that Kráka had boasted of to her, but her logic was weak and emotional. Heathens, thralls, and spoils of war do not count, as they have it coming by their very nature. Unless she'd want to argue against the religious exemption that put the fun back in fundamentalist? Sigurd's scripture was clear on this issue. So we sat down at the table and had a spirited discussion and I didn't quite convince her though she granted that I had a point, of sorts, but at least she was arguing rather than orating, and that counts as progress.

So I took the opportunity to ask her just why she hated me so? Was it something I had done?

She informed me that she hated me since she saw me mounting her sister in the wedding salad when she was 14, a vivid image she could never forget, and never forgive.

I had an insight.

Of course she was envious of her sister – what woman wouldn't be? How could I not have seen that before? It explained so much! And yet again, a nagging doubt assailed me. Could it really be that simple?

So I told the silly goose that there was no shame to being an exhibitionist, and if she had wanted salad with the sausage on her own wedding night, why hadn't she said something? No reason to be envious of her sister over so slight an issue. Just trust Sverker. I could fix this easily as few of the guests had left yet. Send out the handy henchmen to round them up, and she could be the star of an after-wedding performance with a captive audience. It might raise a few brows, but as Fylkir I could declare it a holy act. Perhaps make it a yearly ritual? Would that suit her needs?

Apparently not, or so I inferred from her reaction.

Rather than responding with gratitude for my caring, she sprang to her feet with a yell and launched herself into a flying kick over the table. So perhaps it wasn't quite that simple, but I had obviously touched a nerve.

And what a view!

Dodging her assault, I congratulated her on her athleticism and saw myself out before she began flinging chess boards.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +4

Dear Diary,

Kráka cornered me today to ask why I was confusing her sister so. Sif was turning into a nervous wreck. Why not take her for a ride as she expected? Sure, she'd protest my forced entry, for Sif had always been a bit of a whiner, but the marriage was her idea in the first place and she knew what it entailed.

The sooner I got her used to the reality of married life, the happier everybody would be for it. This was clearly the rational way to proceed, and instead I was gifting Sif chess sets? What in Midgård was going on? Were I trying to drive her sister mad?

I assured her that nothing could be further from the truth. It was simply that as an ardent feminist I respected Sif´s views and bodily integrity too much to take her against her will.

“A likely story, Sverker, my love. Well, if you think that a week of games and that crazy wedding night, where she went all out to beat my record, has given her a taste for your rod of lordly might, and that you just need to wait her out before she comes crawling to share your bed in desperation, I fear you have greatly misunderstood my sister,” said Kráka.

Ha. They are both clueless. This is great.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +7

Dear Diary,

Six zeroes in a row was more than my little witch's curiosity could bear, and she demanded answers. Had I really been defeated by a silly lock? If not, whatever was going on? So we went to our rooms, and I sat her down in her favourite bearchair, and I began talking.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I am simply respecting her views, little witch?” I asked, counterfeiting an honest face.

“That is what I call a low percentage scenario, my stallion.”

“Well, I am. I have now defeated her lock six days in a row despite her changing combinations, on first attempt each time, mind you, but I have kept my hands off her and left her with nothing worse than deepening confusion, a slight edge of paranoia, a tendency to jump at shadows, and an increasing number of chess sets. I've got Gamli the Woodmaster crafting more sets to build up a reserve.”

“I see. You are trying to be tricky, aren't you?” my little witch retorted. She's smart that way.

“Tricky, me? Everybody knows I am straightforward,” I said, innocently, as two can play that game.

But admittedly, only one of us can play it well, as she responded by rolling her eyes and saying, “That's the least convincing face of innocence I've ever seen, my stallion. Own up.”

So I did.

“I am not being tricky. She doesn't want anything to do with me? That's her right, and I have told her so. I'll have her when she comes to me of her own volition, and not a moment before.”

“I'm listening. Disbelieving, but listening, beloved. How does the epic score from her wedding night fit into this rather fanciful tale of yours?”

“Oh, that. I told Sif it was traditional to continue until one of the happy couple dropped from exhaustion, but if she wanted to call it quits after we'd played through a mere nine rounds of penalties from the tickling contest I would respect her wishes and leave her to her rest,” I said earnestly, earning me another disbelieving look.

“Not that it mattered. Sif didn't believe a word of what I was saying, but after being honoured nine times, drunk on the experience and, possibly, strong drink from the feast, she had shed most of her inhibitions, and she is so very, very, competitive. Completely wore me out, truth be told. Have pity on me?”

“A likely story, my stallion.”

“Why do none of the women in my life believe me? Sif doesn't believe me. Kráka asked me because Sif wasn't talking, and she didn't believe me. My mother collared me yesterday because Sif looked pale, and she didn't believe my explanation either. And now you don't believe me. Why, oh why?” I asked, theatrically.

“I guess it is because we know you, my stallion,” she answered. Hard to refute that, but I could give it a try.

“I am wounded! I am nothing if not truthful, and I respect Sif so much it must be driving her mad. I have told her that if she wants to live a gilded life serving my other wives, tending the children and doing her assigned chores as the lowest ranked wife in the household, always inferior to her big sister, that's nothing to me.”

“How noble of you.” she said, ladling on the sarcasm.

“Isn't it, just? I also told her that you'll get me a replacement for breeding purposes soon enough if she underperforms, so why should I make an effort to win her over if that was what she wanted to make of her life? I even granted her a nickname, 'Little Violator', to remind her of her transgressions, lest she forget. I do hope that she'll take up playing chess with me rather than wasting all the evenings, but if not, it'll be interesting to see what she does with the chess sets.”

“I am touched by how you pay attention to her desires, my stallion, but I suspect you are being too clever by half, and I'll ask you not to take your newfound ability of strategic patience to excess or I'll have her put out to pasture.”

“As you wish, little witch. Until then I'll rub her face in the consequences of her actions, and whether she turns to me or you decide to end the game by putting her out to pasture, I win.”

“Now, that's the Bear King I know and love!”

“Wait-a-moment! You insisted on that lame High King title rather than Bear King. Have you changed your mind? It is not too late to change the title,” I suggested, hopefully.

“No. The use of Bear King is mine, and only mine”, she answered, twisting in my lap to give me a hug.

I can live with that.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

It has taken longer than expected, April slipping into May, with cousin Arnfast running wild making a fool of himself, but the weeks have been good to me. More time spent with Kráka and my little witch, frustrating Sif every third day or so, and sending out the call, gathering the armies, while consolidating my power at court. Where do you lead us, they ask?

Now they know. The raven flies east, to the lands of my father. The general vicinity at any rate. The home of the Slavs. Lands that have never known the degeneracy that is feudalism but follow the strongest. And none are stronger than I.

I'll crush cousin Arnfast on my way east. Or perhaps on the return trip, to see if more opportunistic cousins join him.

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I received a message from my little witch. She and Kráka misses me and wishes me well, which is good to know as I spend weeks stomping idiots into the ground and yelling at and pointing my own morons in the right direction. Viola says that Sif has found a use for her chess sets, teaching the children and playing simultaneous chess against the entire family. Good for her, I guess.

If I manage to satisfy Kráka's and Viola's requests for souvenirs for themselves and the children, I guess I might keep a look out for some foreign chess sets as gifts for Sif.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

The campaign season is coming to a close and I'll be returning home for winter quarters next week, and all I want to think of is relaxing in the bosom of my family. Well, my little witch's, anyway.

Then this comes up. As if it isn't bad enough that I have to deal with idiot Slavs that don't know when they are beaten, I am shocked to learn that one of my best Jarls, Karl of Prussia, is an adulterer!

While he is a good man in a fight, Karl has never been bright, but he is loyal and he has served me well on this campaign, and then he goes and does something this stupid. Led by his prick, the fool!

He should know better! Rogering somebody else's wife is a sin in the eyes of the gods. Well, some of the gods, at any rate. Certainly I would never do so. I have never in my life dallied with a married woman. Heathens and war-taken women don't count. Our gods are practical like that – or more likely they just don't care.

BUT what was Karl thinking! He was on campaign, which is a target rich environment for the secondary brain if ever there was one, but noooo, he had to sneak back home to play hide the sausage with the wife of one of his chiefs.

Morons. I'm surrounded by morons.

And if he had to do something that stupid, why was he not discreet? Or failing that, why didn't he just kill the chief and marry the widow as is traditional? Do I have to do all the thinking around here?

As to how in Midgård it came to pass that I learned of this outrage in my own warcamp from a message sent by my little witch from the capital, well, THAT mystery at least has an intelligent answer: His wife is one of my little witch's snitches.

And one of dear departed Baldr's oldest daughters. Who is, apparently, sad.

Which means that two thirds of my wives are urging me to punish him to avenge the slight to their elder half-sister's honour rather than letting him off with a slap on the wrist as is the custom, because while our gods are dead set against adultery, or at least some of them are, one has to be realistic about these things.

Which means that if I don't punish him, Kráka will be sad. So I guess I had better punish him. It is only just, after all.

I'll chop his head off. That'll teach him not to bother my wives.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twentyfirst: The Sverker Diaries, part seventeen -
the world of 933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I sailed up to Lundenborg on the Thames to pick up my present for Sif. The blacksmith was proud of his work, and rightfully so.

He'd had taken my instructions and turned out a masterpiece. It was truly exquisite craftsmanship, the whole greater than the sum of the parts, and every piece measured and blessed by a priest of Freyr. The smith had met my strict time limit, so I doubled his reward and gave him a solid gold arm ring as a bonus.

Some might consider it excessive, but it never hurts to get a reputation as a generous ring giver.

Others might say that this was going too far for a practical joke, but what's the point in being a king if you don't indulge yourself every now and then?

I had my men carry the four chests and the collapsible frame back to the longship, and set sail for home.

Sif is going to be so surprised, and possibly scared out of her wits. She'll never see it coming.

This is going to be great!



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Home, sweet home!

I arrived at noon and my wives greeted me warmly – even Sif's “Hail the Great Violator!” lacked its usual edge – and spent an entire afternoon without killing anybody, without issuing any orders, and without worrying for my life. I handed out presents to my little witch, heavily pregnant with our labours of early summer and glowing as only she can do, and Kráka, and then I told the tale of my war in the east to a rapt audience of my children while my little witch and Kráka looked on fondly, and Sif pretended not to pay attention. And once I was done talking, it was time to hand the children their gifts from abroad, and mayhem erupted.

Once order was restored my wives dispersed to their chores. I, however, went to my room and undressed, and wearing only a long cloak I went to Sif's stall and stealthily crept up on her. She was patching the childrens' clothes, and was so engrossed in her work that she failed to notice me until I loomed over her, blocking the light.

“At last we are alone, Little Violator,” I breathed huskily, “I've been dreaming of this for weeks.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, but recovered well under the circumstances, and turned to face me.

“You know what sustained my during those long, lonely nights on campaign? The memories of playing chess against you the week before I left... You were so radiant, when playing, so full of life.”

“You are being creepy, Great Violator.” she said, an edge to her voice.

“Hush, Little Violator. So I decided to honour you with a gift beyond compare, and here we are. Alone. Together. I thought it better to give it to you in private as you are shy. You'll never guess what it is.”

“I think I might, Great Violator. You are naked under the cloak, aren't you?”

“Oh, that. I realized that your lack of clothing had provided a competitive edge in our games. It is the only way to explain how you beat me so many times, so it came to me that turnabout is fair play, and, at least for the moment, you are dressed. So how about a game of chess for old time's sake before I slip you your present... or would you prefer getting down to business right away?”

“...I'd like to play a game of chess.”

So we sat down at her table, and we played a game just like old times, and she was pretty good. But I was better.

A tense game, but it vindicated my theory. While I was only minimally distracted by looking at her, she was jumpy, and whenever I leaned over to move a piece, she shivered, and as the game went on she grew ever more distracted, staring at my chest. It was well I remained cloaked – had she had my hairy chest to ogle rather than relying on her memories and imagination, her mind would probably have shut down in self defense to protect her from my manly charm.

So struggle as she might, the outcome was never really in doubt, and eventually I moved in for the kill...

“Checkmate, Little Violator! Well fought. I would love to play best out of three, but it is time to end this if I am to give you your gift before dinner. Now, I know what you are thinking: 'Is this the time for ranting or for hysterics? It is so hard to choose...' but think again. Who knows, you might like it more than you think. It has been a long time since I honoured you this way, after all, and absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“And thus the mask of virtue is cast away and you stand revealed at last for the lustful swine I always knew you to be. Very well, Sverker. Have it your way. 'Honour' me with your gift. Just start the unwrapping. We wouldn't want you to be late for dinner,” she replied rising from her seat to stand before me, gnashing her teeth.

My goodness, how she had mellowed.

“Unfortunately, I didn't have time to wrap it. Perhaps you'd like to guess what it is before I reveal it?” I cajoled her.

“No. I am not playing your sick games.” she said in a dead voice, stripped of all emotion.

I felt almost ashamed, as she succumbed to despair and the animation slowly left her face, the light of her eyes dwindling, but I quashed the feeling, and continued.

“I'll give you a hint. What is a two foot long, hard as iron, and one queen's delight but another queen's fear?”

“It bloody well isn't two foot long!” she replied, angrily.

“It bloody well is unless it has expanded in the heat! I had a priest of Freyr measure and bless it!” I said, doing my best to sound affronted, “Now, jolly up and guess.”

“I could see it rising against the confines of your cloak through the entire match, Sverker! I KNOW what it is, and we both know what you are about to do to me. Why must you play these games to torture me? Just get it over with!” she cried, tears streaming.

“As you wish,” I answered, and I opened my cloak and she instinctively shrank from me, then froze in disbelief as I handed her the gigantic black iron chess king that had been resting in my lap throughout the game, and most uncomfortable it had been too, depressing IT and bobbing up and down against my chest depending on IT's whims.

If I had occasionally wondered during the darker days of my eastern campaign whether it would really be worth the cost I paid to have a master blacksmith craft this set, I was repaid in full by seeing her reaction. Tears fled as incredulity set in, soon no doubt to be replaced by outrage, so before she could reach that stage I told her sweetly, “the other 31 pieces are in chests outside your door together with the collapsible board frame, as I couldn't fit them under my cloak.”

She just kept staring at the king, its exquisitely crafted face grinning at her. My face.

“I had them made just for you. I hope you like them. This is where you say 'Thank you, Sverker'!” I continued.

Colour and animation returned to her face, and then she looked up to me, and said, “Thank you, Sverker... YOU BASTARD! YOU REALLY HAD ME THINKING THAT... WAIT, WAS THIS YOUR PLAN ALL ALONG? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, SVERKER!!!!!!” her voice increasing in pitch with every word.

This was glorious.

I beamed my most winning smile down at her.

“Just wait till you see the queen”, I told her, and brought forth the black queen from where I had hidden it under the table. “I think the craftsman really outdid himself with this piece.”

She took a careful look, and then she took another, a cloud of emotions chasing each other across her face, before answering. “The breasts are too large, Sverker.”

“Everybody's a critic. The blacksmith was working from my description and he is used to making statues of goddesses, so perhaps they got a bit of extra oomph, but I honestly don't see it. From head to toe he managed to catch your nearly divine beauty in iron. He certainly got your scowl right.” I wheedled.

“Sverker, I don't know what to say. I can't decide if you are trying to be deliberately crass or romantic. Either way, you are failing miserably. Are you out of your mind?” she asked, clearly baffled.

“Is that a trick question, Sif?”

“...No.” she murmured.

“As it happens, I am out of my mind. With love for you. What your admittedly first rate body failed to win you, your brilliant chess mind has.” I answered, and very romantically so, if I say so myself.

“A likely story, Sverker.” she said, faintly. She certainly hadn't expected that answer, and seemed to be scrambling for another topic. Naturally, she walked right into my trap. “Wait a moment, 31 pieces. That's one too many!”

“I was wondering when you'd catch on to that. I play red, of course, and the red king also has my likeness. Win or lose, I am guaranteed to be the last king standing. Viola, it goes without saying, is the red queen, and she looks positively stunning in her wrath. But the 33rd piece of the set is an extra red queen based on your sister Kráka, which I can use for pawn promotion. As a bonus, if you play a game against your sister, she can play herself for a level playing field. You are going to love her expression; I had the master base it on that wild look she gets when she explains game rules.” I explained.

“I know just what you mean,” she chuckled. Then stopped when she realized what she was doing, and continued coldly, “You DO know that this changes nothing, Sverker. Right?”

I gave her my most winsome smile. “Of course I do. But it was worth it to see your smile, if only briefly. I'll let myself out as I need to dress for dinner.”

I left her staring at her scowling face in iron, as if looking for an answer.

Later, after dinner and after having my steward pop in to to give me the latest news from the capital, where no news is always good news, I relaxed with Viola, it being a v-day. My homecoming days always are. She's considerate like that. Her condition precluded horizontal acrobatics, but cuddling, kissing, and plotting is a decent substitute.

She wanted to know what was up with Sif, whose strange expression at dinner must surely have been occasioned by my visit. (How did she know? One of the children must have noticed and tattled on me. Little snitches, one and all.)

So I told her, and if I nearly strained my arm patting my back explaining the practical joke, who could blame me?

My little witch, that's who.

She didn't object to my having fun, but Sif's unwillingness to do her duty for the Grand Plan and my unwillingness to force the issue to a successful conclusion was a sad state of affairs and to the detriment of the Grand Plan, especially with my absence for months on end to go campaigning, so perhaps it was time to get rid of Sif.

“Well, she was just seventeen,” I began, “and had some girlish notions.”

“You know what I mean!” my little witch retorted.

“And the way she looked,” I continued, “on our wedding morning, I tell you, I'm sure she'll come around. What woman could resist my charm for long? Or my jokes? Did I tell you about how she reacted this afternoon? She's clearly weakening, no doubt remembering how IT”

“was way beyond compare,” she interrupted with a deep sigh, and continued: “I get it. No need to elaborate. You've already told me about your great joke thrice, and I regret to inform you that no woman, ever, anywhere, said, 'Wow! I love his practical jokes! I must have him!'”

If my little witch can be said to have a character flaw, it is that she always takes things so seriously.

“So I have just one more question on this issue, my stallion. Please don't take this wrong, but this isn't a case of, 'I, Sverker, am a genius! I've found a way to circumvent the Grand Plan and get a guaranteed full night's sleep whenever it is an s-day, is it?” my little witch asked.

She's so smart!

“Perish the thought! What do you take me for, little witch?” I asked. “I don't need rest when I've got wives to please. RAWR! Speaking of which, I have missed you. A lot.”

“I noticed and likewise, but let's not digress from the issue at hand just yet. Since you are still having fun, I'll leave you to your little game with Sif rather than putting her out to pasture. Who knows? Your strategy might work, unlikely as it seems. In the meanwhile I'll get you a fourth wife as soon as possible to pick up the slack and help satisfy your needs so you don't suffer from Sif's disability.” she said sweetly.

I walked right into that one, I must admit, but it is not as if I hadn't been expecting her to increase the wife count this winter anyway, so if she considered this winning a minor victory – well, she deserves them and I like to humour her.

It just so happened that my little witch had the perfect candidate for me. Colour me surprised.

“First choice is fiery of spirit, strong, young. and has an amazing body. She can squeeze the juice out of apples with her bare hands and crack nuts with her thighs, and those are just some of her party tricks.”

“Just the skills a wife needs,” I winced, “Who is it?”

“Well, it is like this. Kráka and Sif misses their sister...”

“...”

“:..”

“Sverker? Are you there? Say something, my stallion.”

“For the love of all that is holy, little witch, do you intend me to roger my way through all of Baldr's younger daughters in order of birth?”

“Don't be silly! I skipped Yrsa and Gyda – they aren't up to my standards. Dalla, however, is. If she lives up to her promise, and so far everything indicates she will, she'll end up the perfect campaign wife like her mother Queen Mateja, somebody who'll fight for you and keep you safe on campaign and the nights less lonely, and you'll have strong, smart, babies. Sure, she's a bit on the young side, but with a body like hers there's no reason to wait except for custom, and fuck custom.”

“I am neither fucking custom nor Dalla. End of story. I want somebody older and, while we are at it, I want somebody more sensible than Sif as well.”

“But...” she began.

“No!” I said.

“...Think of posterity! Don't you want our son Blazej to have a good wife? I guarantee you that he's a perfect match for your daughter by Dalla. All my charts indicate so.”

“My WHAT?”

“Projected daughter, I should have said. The omens are in favour.”

“Blazej can fuck himself, and that that is my final word!” I grumbled.

“Now you are just being unreasonable to our son, my stallion. That wouldn't advance the Grand Plan at all.”

“You know that's not what I meant. The question of Dalla is closed. DONE WITH. I'VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH BALDR'S DAUGHTERS. DO YOU HEAR ME?”

“No need to shout, my Stallion, I'm just trying to be helpful. As it happens I do have two other candidates that while perhaps not quite as good as Dalla are good enough and considerably older.”

“By which you mean 16-18, I take it”

“16-17, actually. Well, 16 if you want precise numbers, and that's rounding up for one of them, but who's counting? Prime maidens, the best of their generation.” she began enthusiastically.

“Not again...” I sighed.

“In addition to these two splendid candidates, I remembered your musings from last time, and I have found one (1) mature widow of a Jarl for you, who knows what's what, and might serve despite her advanced age. She's one of my little snitches, and a diligent worker, so she could even help me run the household, as you suggested. She recently became available on the marriage market after her husband suffered an unfortunate axe-related incident, but given her advantages, I don't expect her to remain unmarried for long. I have severe misgivings about her and the maidens are clearly the superior choice, but you did ask and she does fulfil my criteria for the Grand Plan, if only barely.”

“That's more like it. Tell me more about this widow.”

“She's one of your many cousins, and she's smart enough for any two women. Her mother was a Greek, and it shows. Though her beauty has faded somewhat with age, it is an exotic beauty that has aged gracefully. She doesn't have many years of childbearing left, but if you work hard enough at it, I am sure you can make her bear a few children for the Grand Plan. She's currently sorrowing greatly for her dead husband, whom she loved dearly, but she understands her position well and would react positively to a marriage proposal. So far, so good, but as I mentioned, she has significant drawbacks. I have misgivings.”

“Greek? That's good. I acquired a taste for that during my visit to Sicily. Your misgivings?”

“She's opinionated, and several of your acts as High King have displeased her greatly. So she will dislike you, at least at first, and will see this purely as a marriage of convenience with duties and obligations.”

That sounded perfect to me. No games, no hysterics, just the occasional wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am with an older woman as my little witch's schedule demanded, and otherwise we'd ignore each other apart from the occasional report or argument about who needed killing or rewarding, once my little witch had her helping out with the duties of the household. If I had to have a 4th wife, this sounded as low-maintenance as it could be.

“Thus,” my little witch continued, “she won't be meek, but will stand up to you.”

“That's called having a backbone. I'm all for it.”

“She's diligent and temperate, but she is also very, very, cynical.”

“I'm cynical too! I'm sure we'll get along famously.”

“Famous last words. Well, you might be right. A more serious issue is that she has a living son and is likely pregnant, a last legacy of her departed husband, which means it'll be months before she can work for the Grand Plan.”

“Fine with me. Proves she has experience and is fertile, and as you noted, we've recently had an issue with that in the herd. You women can bring the children up as part of the family. The more the merrier, right? Also, her son gives me another lever if her backbone is too stiff.”

“She doesn't have huge tracts of land, as you desired.”

“That's worse, but if I recall right from my Mediterranean adventures, many exotic beauties come with smaller tracts of land. Just how small are we talking?”

“Nothing at all. Her husband's personal land all belongs to their son, if somebody else doesn't take advantage of the situation.”

“Oh. I see. THAT's no problem.”

“And of course there's the issue of how Kráka and Sif will react to your marrying an older woman and giving her status over them, which she will need if she is to help me with my duties.”

“Kráka's opinion doesn't matter, and Sif's opinion matters less than that. If she's good enough for you, she's good enough for them, and I trust I can count on you to squelch any dissent.”

“That's really all the misgivings I have. Is there anything else you want to know or can we get back to the maidens? You'll really like them, I promise. They come 3P-guaranteed: pleasant, pliant, and ready to plough.”

“Not quite yet, little witch. Before we continue, I have one more question. Please don't take this wrong, but as you were talking a horrible idea suggested itself. This isn't a case of 'Kráka and Sif misses their sister' influencing you, where you are proposing I marry one of their older sisters such as, I don't know, perhaps Karl's widow, to take an example completely at random? Deviously presented with reverse psychology to make me think you are distancing yourself from your choice?”

“Perish the thought! What do you take me for, my stallion? Kráka hates her and bears her a grudge, and given how close Kráka and Sif are, I wouldn't be surprised if Sif bears a grudge too. They'll be properly horrified if you choose this cousin. I didn't mention it before because their opinions matter little to you, but now that I think about it, it is yet another strike against the aged and opinionated widow: Strife between your wives will upset your work-life balance.

“My what?” I asked, puzzled. I definitely hadn't seen that one coming.

“You tend to fall off the bench when you are drunk, dearest.”

“Military secret. Inspecting the floor. Best way to ensure it hasn't escaped.”

“Whatever you say, my stallion.” my little witch sighed.

“So that's all right, then. Wifely strife is hardly a problem, or at any rate, not my problem. I'm sure they can work it out as adults, and, if not, you'll set them straight, little witch. I'll take this one.”

“That's it? You don't want to know her age, name, or how you are related? You don't want to hear about my other choices, both much better than this widow?”

“Got it in one. I pick experience over youth.”

“She's in the capital right now settling an inheritance dispute for her son. You could meet her and get to know her before making such a momentous decision,“ she said desperately, “frankly, I think you'd be quite appalled by her views on some of your actions as king.”

“The more reason not to waste time getting to know her. I'm sure we'll get along famously ignoring each other except for our duties to the Grand Plan. And since she's in the capital, let's get it over with as swiftly as possible so I can get through her sacred week and on with planning the spring campaign. Set the marriage for Friday.”

For once I managed to shock my little witch.

“That's three days from now, my stallion! However will we manage to prepare in time!?”

“By keeping it a small intimate setting. Just you, me, Kráka, Sif, and however many family members my handy henchmen can collar before then. Oh, and the bride. Mustn't forget her. That would be silly.”

“You are going to regret this, my stallion.”

“Am not. I have a good feeling about this.”

“Well, don't say I didn't warn you.” she sighed.

There was no way I was getting the last word in this discussion, so I kissed her and we got down to some serious cuddling.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twentyfirst: The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 6: A Tale of Two Sisters -
the world of 933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – Wednesday Before my Wedding

Dear Diary,

Finally it is my wives who have an unexpected countdown to deal with and not I, since I masterfully told my little witch I wanted the wedding done by Friday.

This morning my little witch announced the upcoming marriage to my household. Kráka and Sif were full of questions about the wedding and the lucky bride, which was fine by me as it allowed me to concentrate on my breakfast. After a long journey by sea and a longer campaign, there is nothing like fresh bread and dried fruit in the morning: the breakfast of champions. Clearly Sif had won the baking rights this day, for the bread was delicious, so I dug in as they began a spirited discussion.

It was the time to think of the day's work. The High Kingdom mostly ran itself with each chief handling his own affairs, and five of the great ones deputizing for me. I designed it that way, after all. Uncle Arnbjörn still ran religious affairs, but in a shake-up of the old guard I had four of my cousins dealing with non-axe diplomacy, stewardship, knocking heads, and spying.

Spoiler: ”Council: Probably NSFW in countries with strict gender balance laws”

None of them were all that happy with me except my steward Bui Valdarrson, who shared my sense of justice and suffered a lack of independent thinking that made him perfect vassal material, as I was new to power and had caused some eddies in the family what with forcibly breaking Hugh and Sif's engagement and then taking Sif as my wife.

Some considered it an abuse of power, but that was just envy talking. More importantly, most considered it unsporting, which was a much worse strike against me given our family's favourite pastime. But I could hardly explain the circumstances without becoming the laughingstock of the family, so I had to live with it.

The only ones I could truly rely on were uncle Arnbjörn and his son Tóki, my chancellor. My spymaster Bragi was the firstborn son of my father-in-law, old Ádárn, the Jarl of Wessex, and adored my little witch, his little sister, so he was probably trustworthy, if not necessarily reliable or very competent. The Fucker of Flanders was completely untrustworthy, as always, and was part of the group only because he was too powerful to leave out. I had talked with Töki and Arnbjörn yesterday, and mostly things were going swimmingly, but there were minor problems.

What a surprise. There are always minor problems, and occasionally I have to crack heads and kill people to keep them in line.

Their successors in line, anyway, and these days I have people to do most of the killing for me, which is a relief. But that way lies complacency, and as grandpa Sigurd once told me, “lad, however tiring, however easy it is to delegate, sometimes you have take a personal interest and brutally murder those who offend. It is that personal touch so beloved by the gods that keep people loyal. Your people need to know that you care.”

Who should I pick? I was apparently spoiled for choice, as there were about a score men bothering chancellor Tóki, and waiting to petition me in person now that I was home, but choosing victims at random would be unjust. I could see no way around it. I would have to listen to their complaints and hope somebody was stupid enough to provoke me.

The pleasant background noise of quarrelling wives was interrupted by my little witch's fist of doom slapping the table followed by silence, broken by her asking, in that excessively kind voice she uses when she is being anything but kind and expects to be obeyed, “I trust I made myself clear. Now scram.”

Apparently she had, as they departed the table at speed. Ignoring wifely spats is an essential ingredient to a happy married life in my experience, but I did find myself wondering just what had occasioned such an outburst.


Dealing with administrative affairs was boring, and I found it hard to pay attention. Until the seventh petition. Some guy from the far north who kept staring at my boots while repeating ”eep!”

He'd got a chance to petition the High King himself, but he couldn't meet my eyes, and all he could do was mumble ”eep!”, wasting my time? I had clearly found my victim, so I cut him down with a single stroke. What a strange man, strange man. You'd think he'd never seen a man standing in blood to the ankles before.

By early afternoon the remaining petitioners had respectfully decamped, and as Tóki helped me haul out the five corpses he suggested I take the rest of the day off, as I seemed preoccupied. He'd have some thralls to do the cleaning, and have the Hall of Justice pristine for use tomorrow. Good man.

So I went home and chopped wood. You'll never see one of those feudal lords doing that, but me, I chop my own wood! It is a man's duty to keep his family warm.

Finished, and my blood cooled by the fresh winter weather, I entered my home to find my little witch awaiting me. She oohed and aahed at the heap of logs I was carrying, and best as I was feeling all chuffed up, she scolded me for not cleaning my boots as the frozen blood was thawing all over her floor, and called for Sif to clean them. One of the many duties of the lowest ranked wife, apparently. My boots were too important to be left to the thralls.

Then she announced, calmly as you please, that the week's schedule had been changed due to the upcoming wedding. Regretfully, there would me no more v-days for nearly two weeks. Today was a k-day, tomorrow an s-day, then we had the wedding and the customary week for my new bride, and the scoreboard from the spring made clear that both Kráka and Sif were below quota, so they would go next after that and well, one thing with the other, it all added up. A crying shame, really, as she had longed for more nights together now I was home, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances with the sudden wedding upending her plans. She was sure I would understand the necessity.

I smiled through clenched teeth and thanked her for her good work.

So, later in the evening, Kráka's new game began with a combination lock of a kind with which I was by now much too well acquainted. I tore the chain-mail underwear apart with my bare hands, which must have been quite uncomfortable for her, but she had none to blame but herself.

She pouted, and asked me why I didn't unlock it.

I told her that if Sif wanted to know how I did it, she'd have to ask me herself. Kráka looked slightly embarrassed to have been caught out, but sought refuge in outrage, claiming I had spoiled the game.

All she had wanted was a bit of light entertainment to celebrate my homecoming, for I had been gone so long, and she had really missed me, and now she'd get even less of my valuable time due to Aslaug.

”Aslaug who?” I asked, but in retrospect, I really should have seen it coming.

My new wife. Popular name in the family. So I asked Kráka what she had against Aslaug.

Big mistake.

Puller of hair, arrogant bitch, obnoxious pervert, sly seductress, untrustworthy leader, hideous hag, and slayer of ponies was just the beginning, but I rather ignored her after that, and when finally she paused to catch her breath I sealed her mouth with a kiss, which took her mind off her woes and left us both breathless by the time we were done.

My little witch was clearly right. Kráka disliked my new bride, though the reason was not immediately obvious. Perhaps a game of Smack the Pony had gotten out of hand?

Whatever the cause, the little dear was clearly terrified, though not perhaps so much at the idea of having to share my time with Aslaug, as at the idea of Aslaug put into a position of authority. That fear, at least, I could easily dispel.

Spoiler: ”Kráka and Sverker: Possibly NSFW in Saudi Arabia”

”I missed you too, dear Kráka, and rest assured no hideous hag will ever displace you in my affections.” I told her earnestly, giving her a loving squeeze.

”Thanks, my love.”

She seemed to glow with pleasure, haloed like one of those Christian saints you find plastered all over their churches, but that may have been a visual glitch caused by my longing for her - or possibly caused by the activities of her small dexterous hands, which were rapidly eroding my concentration. I suspect the saints would disapprove of her. More fools they.

I did my best to focus on the matter on hands. Hand. Bad choice of words, there.

”If you are worried that Aslaug might bully you, perish the thought. If she did, my little witch would punish her severely. Putting aside that Viola adores you, you are younger, fertile, and have a prominent role in her Grand Plan. How could an older woman – no matter how helpful in organizing daily affairs – possibly compete with you in the daily rankings?”

”I wasn't worried about that at all, but it is good to know you care.” she said, obviously pleased and lying through her teeth about worrying. ”But let's not talk about her. Tonight you are MINE, and I have already lost too much time.”

”Well, if you are in search of lost time, I have a suggestion”, I said, and exclaimed loudly, ”Proust!”

“What was that supposed to be, my love?”

“That's my horse impression!” I said, and began orating: ”Beware, my mare, for here comes the chevalier rampant, lance in hand!”

“Oh, Sverker!” she said, alight with anticipation.

We played Mount & Blade. It is a simple game, but it never gets old.




The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – Thursday Before my Wedding

Dear Diary,

I have failed. And I have won. In my defense, there is no way I could reasonably have seen this coming.

It happened like this.

Anticipating another fun evening unsettling Sif and another victorious game of chess, I went to her stall tonight carrying a chess set of a more customary size, wearing only my cloak.

Opening her door, I anticipated a robust greeting of ”The Great Violator comes!” but Sif was preoccupied preparing a game of her own. And dressed in a cloak.

”It is bloody heavy, Sverker. Stop ogling me and give me a hand, will you?” she called, struggling with the board-frame for her gigantic chess set, so I gallantly set aside my own smaller set and came to her aid.

Spoiler: ”Sif and Sverker: Definitely NSWF in Talibani Afghanistan”

We set up the game in companionable silence, but I had to know.

”Why the change of clothing?”

“I found on Tuesday that wearing only a cloak provided you a competitive edge, as the occasional glimpses of what lay beneath meant I couldn't help thinking of your hairy manly... chest. It was much worse than playing you clothed.” she sighed, a far away look in her eyes. “So it came to me, that it would probably be equally distracting for you, if you were denied ogling my naked body while playing as you have gotten used to, instead catching only an occasional tantalising view of the object of your vile male lust. Turnabout is fair play, and this puts us on an even footing.”

“Whatever you say, little violator. Let's play.”


There was no sitting down for this chess game. We bestrode the board like giants, making our moves, and... she had a point. I played a conventional aggressive game, and she defensive, but when I prepared my first trap she took her turn with a mighty swish that parted her cloak, revealing a distinct lack of chain-mail underwear, and... I fumbled the next move, charging her queen with my king. NOT a good move.

Sif smiled sweetly at me.

“Ha, Sverker! I knew your loathsome instrument didn't do that because of opening combination locks”, she crowed, as I realized what was up.

I came under furious assault, though you wouldn't know that looking at her, and I looked very carefully. Sif took her turns languidly, walking up and down the board with an excessive amount of swishing and swaying, bending over with Idun's apples partly exposed when moving her pieces... and her chess moves weren't half bad either. It was all I could do to defend, and soon it turned into a bloodbath, trading officers and pawns as I tried to regain control. I was being herded into a trap, and I would have to turn the tables on her soon, but how?


Inspiration struck.

“My, it is hot in here, isn't it?” I asked her, unclasping my cloak and letting it fall to the floor.

Sif gasped and her face reddened as she stumbled over her remaining berserker, pushing him three squares ahead by mistake. A legal move, but a bad one, leaving him exposed to my queen.

“No backsies, right?” I asked her, knocking her berserker off the board while she was trying to compose herself.

“Of course not,” Sif responded, gritting her teeth, “I meant to do that.”

This was not the sort of elegant chess game about which stories are told. If her swishing and swaying had been bad before, now they were positively vicious, and her bending over when making moves was definitely excessive. I, for my part, had a newfound interest in flexing my muscles and doing chest stretching exercises when it was her turn, while IT tracked her movements. It was a brutal slaughter as we attempted to seize the advantage but settled for elimination. Fortunately, she had no counter to my manly chest! She remained strong on the offense, but her defense deteriorated rapidly.

She was not defeated yet, and had one more trick to play. A move to unscrupulous it should be banned.

“Right you are, Sverker. It really is hot in here. All this swishing and swaying is making me sweat all over.” she said, unclasping her cloak and letting it fall to the floor.

I looked carefully, but frankly, I couldn't see it. She didn't seem to be all sweaty to me. Not even when she had to bend far over to move her queen to check my king, did I notice more than a few drops - and I ogled her very thoroughly to be sure. Clearly, she was mistaken.


Somehow she had taken advantage of my minor distraction to improve her position, and I was another two pawns down, but I managed to extricate my king in time as she moved in for the kill. And now my experience from the spring paid off, as I had grown used to playing against her in her birthday suit. I redoubled my efforts, focusing strictly on the game, and in the end she was not my equal as a player, though given how she had improved over the past year, she would probably end up the stronger player by far if she continued improving.

It took me another six turns and the sacrifice of a Gode for her to put me in a most dangerous position: If only she were not a turn behind, she could spring her trap and her queen would check my king and push me into a ruinous defense, but.. she was a turn behind and her attempted trap had left a flank open, as I intended. Swiftly I advanced my remaining Gode along the diagonal to threaten her king. ”Check”, I told her kindly, ”and mate in four.”

”Dammit, Sverker! I really thought I had you there.” was what she said.

”But you didn't.” I added helpfully, ”Do you want to resign?”

“Not so fast!” she answered.

Sif walked up and down the length of the board's frame while studying the situation carefully, all theatrics abandoned, then shook herself and looked at me, a puzzled look on her face: ”That's not mate in four. You overlooked something.”


I couldn't believe it. What had I overlooked? Now it was my turn to carefully inspect the board, but no matter how I looked at it, the conclusion was the same. Mate in four. Sif was mistaken, and I told her so.

”You forgot the Queen's gambit, Sverker.” she gloated.

”What gambit?” I asked.

”THIS!” she cried, and rotating at speed on her left foot, her right leg swept my king off the board, ”Mate in one!”

”FOUL!” I cried, but she wasn't listening. She was busy giving me other things to worry about than an illegal chess move.

Sif had somehow hit the floor with her hands and redirected her momentum into a flip. She landed again on her hands halfway across the board, and with a mighty push she launched herself straight at my head, feet first.. I knew she was athletic, but how did she get so strong!

I took a step back, then grabbed hold of myself. I'd damned if I retreated from my wife, even if she was attacking me in this novel fashion! So I braced myself for impact and brought up my hands to protect my face. An instinctive reaction, but a tactical mistake as it left them out of position.

For I had misjudged her intent. She tucked in her arms and legs and somehow rotated in flight until her body was upright, then she stretched out her arms and spread her legs, while beaming all over her face. What I had taken for an attack was a most unconventional jump into my arms powered by her freakishly strong arms.

But she came in too low, and with my arms out of position, I could not catch her in time.

Spoiler: ”Sif and Sverker: Likely NSFW in the US Bible Belt”

“Ooooh!” she exclaimed, as she struck home and desperately clung to me, arms and legs wrapped around my body, trying to halt her slide.

“!!!!!!” I exclaimed, as her impact registered and I tried to support her weight.

“Oh, my, “ she exclaimed, as she realized what had happened.

“For the record, that does not count as an assault. You did NOT just win our little game.” I exclaimed, as I realized what had happened.


Then, and only then, did the pain register, my mind having been too stunned by developments to notice immediately.

I nearly blacked out from the pain, but with a great effort I held on to consciousness, and lifted her into a more comfortable position where she could hold on with her arms around my neck rather than mid-ribs. “What the hell was that for!? That really hurt!” I demanded.

“I just wanted to please you, Sverker! Kráka says you both love when she jumps into your arms!” she answered, “and this is nice. Very nice. I see why she loves it. It is hardly my fault that you took a step back, spoiling the trajectory.”

So this was Sif's demented variation of Kráka's The Jumping Women of Cadiz game? Much was explained. Except perhaps for one thing. “Please me? By Thor's golden balls, why would you want to please me! I am the Great Violator, remember?”

“Because I love you and cannot live without you,” she said. I may have heard more surprising statements in my life, but if so, none came readily to mind except possibly when the Emir of Córdoba's daughter offered me a complete edition of Archimedes' works as an alternative form of entertainment to the all-natural, not realizing that I wasn't the either-or type of raider.


A certain suspicion did form, however. Sif's statement bore examining, so I suppressed the pain for the moment and stayed silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She must have sensed that I wanted an explanation, for she continued.

“You are a king and of the greatest renown, a warrior without equal, a ring-giver without parallel, feared by his foes and beloved by his friends. What woman would not desire you?”

Friends? I had friends? News to me. Also not important. Focus on the main issue.

“You, until today.” I answered.

“I was young and still held girlish notions this spring! I can't believe you are still making a big issue out of that. That was ages ago, long forgotten! I made up my mind to be your wife in truth long before you returned,” she pleaded, not entirely convincingly, as her face began reddening at being caught in her lies so easily.

“Pardon me for my scepticism, but your actions upon my homecoming raise doubts about your sincerity.” I told her, kindly.

“I was surprised! I don't react well to surprise! It was only when I realized that it was all an elaborate joke, that I could relax. I love your jokes – that's what first attracted me to you. The whole seven-days-to-Sunday threat, followed by holding back and making me look a fool in the process, utterly humiliating me in the eyes of my sister, Viola, and worst of all, myself? Sure, it hurt, but was a good hurt. It was brilliant!” she pleaded, and as Odin is my witness, she sounded earnest.

I knew she was touched in the head, but this was something else entirely.

“I have it on good authority that no woman, ever, anywhere, was attracted to a man because of his jokes. And few people enjoy humiliation. So this would not by any chance have to do with my upcoming marriage to Aslaug, would it?” I asked her, calmly.

“No. She's a bitch, but she knows better than to cross me,” Sif said, making an angry bounce and forcing me to tighten my grip, “and while I don't like being ranked last doing the worst of the chores, whether last means third or fourth would make no difference in Viola's eyes.”

She still sounded earnest, but I am made of sterner stuff. So I gave her a firm slap on the rump, and told her to tell me the truth. Her face flushed, though whether from shame or anger I could not tell, and her legs locked in a death-grip, and she leaned back, drawing in a big breath, before unleashing a torrent of words:

“It is true! I am enthralled by your hairy manly chest, and fear and respect your loathsome instrument, and love your kindness to your wives and children when you think nobody is noticing, and I like how you crush your enemies without mercy and bring lamentation to the heathens, and I love the extent you are willing to go to make a good practical joke, and I want your respect rather than pity, and I want to help you plan campaigns because I have read all the classics, and I want to be yours forever and bear your children and not always be ranked last. I only acted as if I detested you to inflame your desire for me, and I stopped eating Maiden's Delight to prevent pregnancy in anticipation of your homecoming! And now Viola is threatening to put me out to pasture so I will never be with you again!” she wailed. “If that means ending my game early and conceding to you to prevent that fate, it is a small price to pay. And it really is nice being held in your arms. I see why my sister recommends it. It is therapeutic.” she said, ending with a happy sigh.

O-ho, so Viola was threatening to put her out to pasture, was she? That, at least, was a lie, since my little witch had agreed with me not to. Or perhaps, were I to be more generous to Sif, it might be her fear speaking, misunderstanding my little witch's subtle threats, though I had no doubt that the one she feared being parted from was her sister.

Either way, the whole thing sounded like at least half fiction with just enough truth added to tempt me into fooling myself that she loved me, and what man can realistically expect more from a woman? Other than my little witch, of course. One thing was clear – the stress free nights of sleep on s-days were a thing of the past, and it was time to be a graceful winner. Or loser, as the case might be.

Her previous outburst having left her seriously short of breath, Sif was breathing heavily now and emitting small, happy, noises.


“So it is time for a new beginning, is it?” I asked.

Her face split in a wide smile.

“Yes! Let us make wild reckless love all night!” she gasped; This sounded like a prepared line, and it wasn't half bad, though it would have sounded more impressive than desperate were she not out of breath. Still, I had to give her points for the effort, if for nothing else.

“No offense, but it is kind of creepy to hear that coming from you, Sif. What happened to your chastity and fear of IT?”

“Suppressed by logic and desire.” was her answer, and one that was hard to argue with. Where would I even start? And did I want to? I put aside the thought. There was a more imminent issue to deal with.

“Unfortunately, I may have to disappoint you, as my pain may delay your ultimate satisfaction.” I excused myself.

“What pain?” she asked, utterly confused.

“From your impact to my nether region; It was crushing,” I explained myself, delicately.

“Do you want me to blow on them to make it better?”

“NO! Also, that would be impossible in your current position.”

“Then I really don't see what the problem is, Sverker.”

She was back to being her unreasonable self.


“It hurts so much I am unsure whether I'll be able to perform at all! I'll be lucky if everything is in working order for tomorrow's wedding. That is what I am trying to tactfully suggest!” I shouted in frustration.

She paused for a short while, digesting my outburst, while rubbing her breasts against my chest which was most distracting and a serious challenge to my willpower. Then she spoke.

“You are such a fraud, Sverker! Your loathsome instrument has been pounding away since you caught me, and you are doing great!”

“IT has? I didn't notice. I must have left IT in autonomous mode.” I answered, feeling rather proud of myself.

“There is a time and a place for jokes, Sverker, and this is not it. PAY ATTENTION TO ME!”

So I did.

But not for long.

For I had a thought.

“Sif,” I said seriously (so very seriously!) without slowing down, “I have been thinking of the chess game, and I must bow to your superior analysis.”

“Errr. Thanks?” she said.

“You achieved mate in one,” I said, delivering the punchline with relish and perfect timing as I erupted.

“Sverkeeeeeeer!” she cried, arching against me.

I do so love telling a joke to an appreciative audience. There's a time and place for every joke, and in nailing her I had nailed it. No wonder she loved me!


Later, much later, as we lay exhausted in bed, drowsing, Sif began giggling. As her face was to my chest, this was a ticklish but not unpleasant sensation. I grunted an inquiry.

“Nobody is ever going to believe my jump happened. It is too outrageous. How did you do it?”

“Would you believe me if I said IT was heat-seeking?”

“No.”

“Your sister does.”

“I am less gullible. Now give!”

“Then call it chance, or a miracle, and accept that Frey or Freyja may have influenced the landing. A divine joke is as good an explanation as any. I suggest we keep knowledge of this to ourselves, our own secret from the world.”

“A secret? Even from my sister?”

“ESPECIALLY from your sister. If you told her, she'd make a game out of attempting to replicate the jump.”

“Perhaps it is better so,” she acquiesced, “she is not as athletic as I and might damage your loathsome instrument.”

“Can you please stop calling IT that?”

“Archimedes' Lever, then?” she asked, drowsily.

“Works for me,” I replied, equally drowsily. It had been a long day, and a longer night.

“Then I definitely want you to demonstrate the Archimedes' Screw on me using Archimedes' Lever”, she whispered lustily in my ear.

“Irrigation doesn't work that way, Sif”, I mumbled, as my mind scrambled to follow this strange turn in the conversation. There was something familiar about it, but I could not for the life of me recall what.

“Oh, yes it does,” she said, climbing on top, her exhaustion and drowsiness banished by the spirit of curiosity.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twenty-second: The Sverker Diaries, part eighteen -
the world of 933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – Friday, my Wedding

Dear Diary,

My wedding day began auspiciously.

I sat down to break my fast with my little witch and Kráka, Sif being inexplicably absent, and was in high spirits as we discussing the business of the day over breakfast – which wedding guests to keep an eye on, which to lean on for support in the upcoming campaign season, which to shun for their lack of support – the usual.

We were in the midst of a heated argument about Kráka's brother Egill - she thinks the world of him, and he is reliable and competent enough, but he is one of nature's followers – when Sif appeared and staggered slowly to the table, unsteady on her legs.

“Wow, you look PGSS today. Busy night, was it?' my little witch asked her, and remembering her explanation of that expression at my last marriage (for ha! I DO listen to my little witch, even if she thinks I do not), I have to admit that Sif did look a bit like a stunned bunny.

But my little witch had guessed the wrong cause this time; I was blameless! It was Sif's airborne assault that did it, not a half-Bødvar. Unfortunately I would have to pass up on this rare opportunity to correct my little witch. There are some ideas that Kráka must not be subjected to, lest she gets creative.

“We played chess and I lost,” answered Sif, looking incredibly guilty and out of sorts.

“You were ever a sore loser,” grinned Kráka to her sister, and continued, “I was trying to put the small ones to bed, but you kept distracting them. Why, they wondered, were you crying 'MORE, MORE, I'M STILL NOT SATISFIED!' And just as I had finally quieted them, Wincenty ran up to me, begging me to prevent you from killing his father. He had, purely by coincidence, been passing your door, when he heard Sverker shouting 'VALHALLA, I AM COMING!' and the sound of breaking furniture. So I told him not to worry, that was how a Fylkyr prayed, which comforted him.”

By coincidence? I think not. He must have been eavesdropping, the little sneak. But that was neither here nor there. This was an excellent opportunity to jolly Sif up.

“Well, it was a very vigorous game of chess,” I answered, grinning back at Kráka, then turned to her sister. “Sif, dear, correct me if I am wrong, but this would be when I cornered your queen, penetrated your defenses, and just as I was about to unleash my Gode... the table broke.”

Watching Sif's face grow red with mortification never gets old, but she gamely rallied when Kráka offered her a high-five over the table.

“My decision not to put you out to pasture or render you down for glue is clearly vindicated,” said my little witch.

A sudden silence descended.

“Just my little joke”, she said, and perhaps it was. We all laughed at her wit. Better safe than sorry.


Work was decidedly average. I ruled on the ownership of a pig, executed a thief, and played hnefatavl with Jarl Bjorn in the early afternoon.

I decided to call it an early day, and went to chopped wood for the wedding feast.

The latter took longer than expected, as halfway through I was hit on the back by a snowball. I expected it to be one of the children, but as I turned and roared to scare the little blighter, I realized my mistake as I saw Sif for the brief moment before her second snowball hit me right in the face. Shaking my head to clear the snow and make it a harder target, I dropped my axe and charged her as she was packing her third snowball.

Only to be tackled from the side by a scantily clad Kráka, rising from the snow beside her sister. I had been double-teamed.

“You crazy...” I began, but I lost my breath as I crashed into the snow with Kraka on top. She hugged me close and spoke words of frost, “Woe is the Ice Queen, caught by the lecherous Fire Lord!”. Great, just great. Another bloody game.

She began tickling me, and I tickled back, and I was just about to complain that strictly speaking she caught me, when Sif intervened, undoing my belt and pulling off my trousers, and I realized that not only was I was outnumbered, I was arse-deep in snow and chilling fast.

“Cut it out, you two. This is ridiculous!” I shouted.

Apparently this was the wrong cue, for Kráka ignored it, shaking with cold and saying in her game-master voice, “Will his vile lust consume her and thaw her frozen heart, or will IT shrink from the challenge?”

Risking chillblains, frostbite, and hypothermia for a game. Wouldn't that be an embarrassing way to lose a wife. Not to mention potential damage to IT. Fortunately, I know a thing or two about central heating and I still had my good coat on, so I pulled her under the coat to share my body heat, slipped her the wood, and together we went on to prove that vigorously rubbing can start a fire.

I rather lost control, then, but eventually the Ice Queen was thawed and lay sweating in the snow, and with a mad but satisfied smile Kráka proclaimed the game at an end. Sif, who had patiently been watching us, handed us our clothes and returned my axe, which she had thoughtfully secured for the duration of the game.

As exercise goes, a spontaneous roll in the snow with a willing lass is not to be disdained, and there is something to be said for chopping wood in company, especially when the company is my two young wives cheering me on. But I could have done without their after action report. Their squabble over just how many points Kráka had earned free-range for the scoreboard was bad enough, but when they began discussing technique... Some things were not meant for man to know.

So we all returned home and rejoiced in the warmth of the hearth, and as dusk descended, is it any wonder that I was in a fine fettle for my wedding, and wondering what my new wife would look like?

Greek looks, exotic beauty, a bit worn but still good for a tumble?

Soon the guests began arriving, and my little witch brought me to see my bride for the first time. I was impressed. She seemed vaguely familiar – likely I had seen her at some family gathering – but more importantly, what a view!

“My dear, at last we become family,” my little witch greeted her, and before I could get a word in edgewise, they were deep into a discussion of women's issues, leaving me free to continue my inspection without the distraction of words. If anything Viola had underestimated her exotic beauty. She must be around forty, but what she had lost with the departure of youth's bloom she more than made up for with her queenly bearing and matronly looks, that screamed that she was in dire need of a tumble. I caught her eye, and her wicked smile was all I needed to know we were of one mind.

I had just begun undressing her mentally when reality intervened. Viola told her that she had spotted Áslaug and suggested we greet her. And just as I was puzzling that out, a young woman wearing the richest of clothes and an exquisite fox-skin around her neck glided up to us and greeted me as king and husband. Which was when the coin dropped.

My bride was radiant. And quite a bit younger than my little witch had intimated, but that... was an issue for another time. I looked her up and down, performing a quick inventory, and I liked what I saw. And if she ended up looking like who I belatedly realized was my mother-in-law to-be in another twenty years, I would, indeed, be a fortunate man.

Like mother, like daughter. Time to turn on the charm.

“Though I don't recall seeing you before, you seem familiar, somehow. As if I have found a piece of myself that was lost,” I told her, smoothly.

“I'm your cousin, Sverker,” she replied, “and have the family looks. That probably explains it.”

“No, there is more to it than that, I am sure. Why do you seem so familiar? Can it be that our marriage was fated?”

“More likely you noticed me in passing earlier in the year, when you passed through my late husband's domain on your way to war. Moreover, you must have seen me plenty of times as a child at the king's great family gatherings, but you were never one to pay much attention to the children. And rightly so. I was an awkward gangly child, then. I trust I have outgrown that as a woman.” she replied.

That was a straight line if ever there was one. Time to bury her in praise, and her dead husband as well, whomever he had been. One of my Jarls, according to my little witch, but there are so many I can hardly be expected to remember them all.

“Thoughts of war had driven our earlier encounter from my mind, but I recall it vividly now. Your steadfast support for your mighty husband impressed me. He was a good man in the shield-wall, and his loss hurt me greatly even as it strengthened my great-father Odin's host. Unless Freyja got him for Fólkvangr, that is, and he strengthens her host instead. I wonder if Freyja is a Commander With Benefits? Who knows? Who cares? He's better off where he is now, is the point I'm making,” I told her with feeling.

“Praise Odin!” she answered.

“And you, obviously, are better off with me. Not just because I am bigger, stronger, richer, king, and Fylkir, but most importantly of all because I am alive, and he isn't, the inconsiderate bastard. Frankly, he did you a favour by biting the dust. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

“...Yes, obviously.”

“As for your childhood, I find it almost impossible to believe you were an awkward gangly child, but if you were, you have long outgrown it. You are a true beauty, Áslaug, with a queenly bearing and, according to Viola, wisdom to match, which is a rarity amongst women. Please do not pretend this is news to you. You are no blushing maid, but a woman in the prime of your life, and deserving of the praise you are given. Truly is it said that one man's loss is another man's gain, but in your particular case I find the loss of one man to be my gain, and you are worth having. No false modesty.”

“As you say. Still, it is nice to be praised, and as I have always believed that we make our own luck, I would enjoin you to refrain from false modesty on your own part as well. It hardly suits a king. A real man takes what he wants!”

“Indeed, and so I shall. Hear my words and know I speak truth: WOMAN, I WANT YOUR BODY!”

“That's more like it!”

Silence descended and for some reason all my guests were staring at us, except for Áslaug's mother, who crossed herself and began speaking Latin. I only understood one word in five, but given the amount of hellfire and damnation I made out, this was probably not a prayer.

My little witch took this as a cue to call us all to the tables to start the feast. She is wise like that.

Áslaug had impeccable table manners and a way of looking at me that promised much. As the evening progressed I began looking forwards to the end of the ceremony, but realized that some things had better be said before our vows. Just in case Viola's briefing of the business deal to Áslaug had been as incomplete as mine.

“Just to be sure, you are aware that it is a marriage of convenience, yes? A business agreement where you get to be high queen and front for Viola while helping her run affairs when I am on campaign, and every so often the two of us indulge in bedroom gymnastics, but frankly, not too often, as keeping up with Kráka and my little witch was hard enough before Sif decided to stop sulking and join the fun.”

“You are oversharing, but I completely agree. This is a business arrangement, plain and simple. You don't have to like me and I don't have to like you, but we can use each other to further our plans.”

“Fairly said. I know how I plan to use you, but how do you plan to use me? What are you really after?”

“Power.”

“Silly me. Here I thought you were going to say safety for your children or a place to live without undue hardship or something equally soppy, but power? I can respect that.”

“I am a woman with simple tastes.”

“Good. My point was that love or companionship is no part of the deal, and I am happy you agree. That I happen to lust after your body is merely a fringe benefit as I see it. If I may be so coarse, you are a woman worth stealing, and not one to put over the side of the longship, as the old saying goes. ”

“Funny you should say that. So you DID notice me, earlier this year. I wondered what I had done to draw the attention of the King with the Iron Rod, when Viola suggested this marriage so soon after I was widowed. You could have had any woman you wanted, but you wanted me and took me. Ruthless and efficient. I like that.”

“I fear I must correct you: I did not deliberately target you. You only came to my attention because Viola mentioned that you matched my requirements.”

“I see. Of course it is as you say, my lord. I apologize for misunderstanding.”

“Now that we have cleared that up, I have a question for tonight... Please don't take this wrong, but you don't happen to have either a) a love for role-playing games with dice, b) a fetish for pretending you are a virgin, c) a hankering for wargaming, or d) an unnaturally loud voice during sex?”

“That's weirdly specific, but no, I do not. I hope that does not disappoint you. I do have one question since we are clearing things up, and please don't take this wrong, but there are some frankly unbelievable rumours about you, so... Is it really two feet long?”

“I imagine you'll find out soon enough.”

“I imagine I will, but nevertheless... Is it?” she asked, coyly.

“Of course it isn't a two-footer! Who could possibly swallow that? One of Kráka's boasts got out of hand, and now everybody from here to Miklagård think I am hung like a horse!”

“I see.”

“So don't worry on that account. It is a foot and a half at most, and that's really stretching it!”


As I carried Áslaug down the hallway of stalls after the ceremony, I noticed it sported a new banner: ”Sverker expects every wife to do her duty.”

Fortunately Áslaug was too busy snogging to notice, so whether this was Viola's well-intentioned message to Áslaug or a mockery by Sif and Kráka, it did no harm, but it did hasten my steps to the mare's newly opened stall. Bedchamber. Dammit. So perhaps I was preoccupied with snogging too, and who can blame me with such an active bundle in my arms?

I kicked open the door and rushed us through aiming for the bed, and that is when reality intervened as we smashed into a pole in the middle of the room.

“Why is there a pole in your stall?” I asked. Perfectly reasonable question if you ask me.

“I asked Viola to provide a few accessories. Good times, I see she remembered the chain and manacles”

“She always pays attention to details. Wait, what!? Chain and manacles?”

“The pole would hardly be useful without them, husband, though I guess the rope on the bed could do in a pinch. Now shush and help me find the whip.”

“Explain yourself. Now.”

“I hardly think an accomplished raider like you would need to an explanation, but if you want to play games, who am I to argue? It is so you can chain me to the pole, leaving me utterly helpless and allowing you to play out your most depraved and perverted desires on my body when you claim me, overcome with lust. We can go to the dungeon and do it, if you prefer that, though it would be a shame as this wedding chamber is more comfortable.”

I shook the ugly visions of the dungeon... This wife was supposed to be normal? I'd have some words with my little witch, that was for sure.

“I trust I treat my wives with more respect than that!” I said.

“Oh, really? I attended Kráka's wedding. Even Praxida was shocked when you had her daughter in the lettuce, though that may be because Kráka's hair whipped her mother's face when you pounded especially hard,” she responded, in a rather sharper voice than her quiet and forthright demeanour at dinner.

“Be that as it may,” I said, attempting to maintain my dignity, ”I prefer my women unchained. Why would you even want to be chained in the first place?”

“Because I've been a bad girl and deserve punishment!” she said through clenched teeth.

“Whatever. No wife of mine is being chained to a pole!”

“Viola warned that you might be unreasonable like that. How about you rip off my clothes, throw me on the bed, tie me up with the provided rope spread-eagle style, and ravish me until dawn? You can't possibly object to THAT!”

“Well...”

“What are you waiting for, husband?”

“You know what? I was going to ask you why you wanted this, but this isn't even the third strangest thing I've been told by a wife this week. So Vive La Weird, as they say in Francia. Let's get you naked and strapped in!” I said, and stripped her and strapped her in before she could muster a retort.

It is true what they say: If you learn from the best, you never forget how, and half a lifetime ago I had been taught by a professional: Mother Superior Iyana of fond memory. This is why education is so important.

Then I got down to business.

Truth be told, I was still exhausted from last night, not to mention the afternoon, so I took her slowly and gently, or at any rate as gently as one could with a lover who was tied down. Can't say it was a particular pleasant experience as I prefer my women to participate or at least struggle to show willing, but Viola expects every husband to do his duty, so I did. It was soon over.

“That was gentler than I expected from the King with the Iron Rod.” she said. “You don't have to show such remarkable restraint, you know.”

It came to me that mentioning to Áslaug that this was the best I could do, as I was exhausted from sexually pleasuring Sif for hours last night and this morning, would not be the wisest approach on her wedding night.

Neither would mentioning Kráka's assault this afternoon. Oh my, she really was competitive when she put her mind to it, the saucy little minx... Unless, were it possible that they had coordinated this to exhaust me on my wedding night? It hardly seemed likely, but if they did... well, who was I to complain?

Better concentrate on the woman on hand, who was waiting for an answer.

While regaling Áslaug with my exploits would undoubtedly impress her with my virility, odds were that she'd have preferred a personal demonstration to an informed one, and she might take my priorities amiss. I needed an excuse, and thankfully my brilliant mind came to my rescue.

“You are with child, lovely Áslaug, so I need to be careful for both your sakes,” I replied in a show of gallantry.

“I am sturdier than I look and it is early in my pregnancy. You can do anything you like to me – no need to hold back.”

“Anything?” I asked slowly, an idea presenting itself unexpectedly.

“Anything. No matter how violent, depraved, or perverted. Live out your fantasies on my body. I need to be punished.”

“I can really do anything? I must warn you, once I get started I am impossible to stop.”

“Yes, really anything. I have sinned and must suffer punishment!”

“ALL RIGHT! Just don't go running to Viola tomorrow crying over spilt milk”, I said, and laid myself down beside her to sleep.

“Husband?”

It was so relaxing. A lovely by my side, and both my primary and secondary brain content to relax after sex, and yet sleep eluded me.

“What are you waiting for?”

If only she would shut up, it would be perfect.

“If this is some type of psychological torture, it isn't working, husband.”

She was right. It wasn't working.

“Might I suggest the whip? Everything is better with a whipping, you know.”

Of course! The whip! Why hadn't I thought of that. I got out of bed, doused the candles, and picked up the whip.

“Coming, my lovely. Now, open your mouth and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise.” I called to her in a sing-song voice as I approached the bed.

“Oh my, I wonder what that can be,” she answered seductively. Obediently she opened her mouth wide, making it child's play to gag her with the whip.

I had to admit it, but she was right. While I had had my concerns about tying her up, it had certain advantages and added spice to the oldest game.

So I drifted off to sleep, while Áslaug mumbled against the gag and engaged in futile attempts to free herself.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twenty-third: The Sverker Diaries, part nineteen -
the world of 933
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – the morning after

Dear Diary,

I awoke refreshed to blessed quiet.

Turning on the side to look at my wife, I saw that Áslaug had nearly managed to chew through the whip before sleep claimed her, which showed an abundance of determination and very strong teeth.

It almost seemed a shame to wake her, so instead I began playing with her Idun's apples, which were firm and responsive, just the way I like them.

Her eyes flashed open.

“Want some help with the whip?” I asked her helpfully, and received a strong glare for my trouble as she renewed her chewing effort.

If looks could kill, that would have done me in, but despite the discourtesy I respected her wishes and left her to her work, and me to mine.

Alas, she was soon done, and my quiet morning was at an end.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, SVERKER?” she asked me kindly.

Clearly, this called for tact.

“Could you specify, dear Áslaug?” I asked her kindly.

“Yes... Yes, I can do that. I am somewhat confused as to why you would gag me and go to sleep rather than having your way with me, AND DEAR FREYJA, YOUR COVER IS LEVITATING!?”

“Obviously, I was trying to please you, “ I responded, having had a good half an hour to think of an explanation, “and that's not levitation, it is morning wood. Care to help a poor fellow out?”

Her eyes boggled. “Explanations first, dear Sverker.”

“You wanted to be punished, ideally in a vile and depraved way, so I asked myself: What's the worst I can do do you? It came to me that Denial of Service, leaving you unfulfilled on your wedding night, would be both cruel and unusual punishment, and just about the worst thing I could do to you. Pretty hard on myself too, that deprivation, but I do try to humour my wives' minor eccentricities, and based on your consternation it would seem I was right.”

“I see. I was thinking of a less intellectual approach, husband. Whipping, slapping, roughing me up. Rough sex. Dominating me. Not stopping when I beg you to. That sort of thing.”

“What we have here is a failure to communicate. Perhaps you could tell me what's up with the pole, chain, manacles, and rope, not to mention the general theme of abuse? Seems unhealthy to me. In my experience women will often go to extreme lengths to avoid that sort of thing.”

“Three reasons, if you must know. First, it is traditional. It is how my father met my mother. Second, WILL YOU PLEASE STOP PLAYING WITH MY BOOBS AND LOOK AT MY FACE WHILE I'M TALKING TO YOU”

Was that a trick question? Better play it safe.

“No.” I said, and continued gently stroking them.

“Right on! Ignoring me and satisfying your own desires. That's the spirit!”

Áslaug was clearly mental.

“Second, I need to be punished. Third, I hate you. I hate you so much. Having my arms tied removes the risk that I might let my hatred triumph over my ambition and cause me to attempt harm to you, spoiling the marriage should I succeed, or causing you to take offence should I fail.”

“I don't care about your father's 'how I met your mother' tale, and your hatred? That adds spice to life. Just ask Sif. My winsome personality will win you over soon enough. But please help me understand why you need to be punished?”

“My late husband died for my sins because a vile man lusted after me, and only by suffering can I atone.”

“I say, have you been listening to Christians? Take it from me as Fylkir, the gods don't care about such things, so why should you?”

“Fuck the gods. I care, and that is all that matters!”

“Now, that I can respect, wife. Punishment coming right up, once I untie your legs to improve blood circulation. It'll also help you struggle more, which I guess your grief-stricken mind would see as a negative. Or possibly positive? Anyhow, it is better for me, and that's how you want it, right?”

“NO!” she cried.

“I'll take that as a yes, then?”

“RIGHT ON!”

Ha! And Viola says I don't understand women!

Spoiler: ”Possibly NSFW in Severely Repressed Societies”

After she had cured me of my morning wood, and she had finally agreed to be freed to go to the chamberpot, and we lay relaxing by each other in bed, I could for a moment forget the weirdness of the day. But alas, it didn't last long, as I asked her a question that came to my drowsing mind, and more fool me.

“Not that it matters, but since my little witch insists I pretend to be interested in my wives beyond the practical, I have to ask, why do you hate me?”

She raised herself on the side and loomed over me, looking down on me with hatred blazing in her eyes.

“Must you do this, Sverker? You KNOW why I hate you. MUST I say it?” she said, indignantly.

I knew? News to me.

“Humour me, wife.”

“You killed my husband!” she said. As voices of doom goes, it was a decent attempt.

“Really? I kill so many people, I can't keep count, but fancy that. What are the odds? What was it, a friendly stab in the heat of battle?” I inquired.

“You chopped off his head!”

“I've been working on the backswing, but you know how it is; If somebody doesn't know how to duck, well, that's greatfather Odin's way of weeding out the idiots and the unlucky.”

“Sverker, you BASTARD! You killed him right in front of me, while you raped me with your eyes!”

“Errr... That's not how it is done...” I said, pondering the mechanics.

“SVERKER! If you don't tie me up now, I'm going to do something I'll regret.” she said, gnashing her teeth, and I felt cold iron touching IT.

Well, I wasted no time overpowering her and tying her hands to the bedposts again, that was for sure. Only to discover that she'd been wielding a spoon, but better safe than sorry.

“That's better. Sverker, I just don't understand you. I can, perhaps, understand why you want to pretend in public that you didn't lust after me, kill my husband, and then take me for your own, pretending that you have clean hands. I would have thought that showing you for the rapacious beast you are would earn you more support in our family, but it depends on who you want to appeal to. So I am perfectly willing to play along with that official story as I did yesterday night when we discussed it.”

What? When had we discussed that? This woman confused me on so many levels, that even the bear within was roused from slumber.

“But denying reality in private... I just don't get it. Is this a sick game?”

“Let me get this right. You believe – probably because some troll put it into your head, but you truly believe it - that you are indirectly guilty for me killing your moronic late husband out of lust for you, and your preferred way of punishing yourself is to marry me and urge me to repeatedly violate you?”

“Yes... Though to be fair, the punishment and violation is just a bonus. I am mostly in it for the power Viola offered. And, frankly, it is rather flattering to have the mightiest king on life kill a loyal Jarl, just so he can claim me and make me queen. Really reaffirms my value as a woman.”

Well, yes, she should be flattered. Good point.

“Just a shame it had to be the love of my life you killed, but nobody claimed life was fair. So in the circumstances marrying you makes excellent sense even if I have to subdue the desire to geld you. Not that one turns Viola down when she makes a suggestion like that, mind you. She's dead serious about breeding.”

She really is. Finally something we could agree to. Áslaug was clearly delusional, but I could work with that, and so could the bear. Grandpa Sigurd once told me that one of the lessons of his long life I could profit from was not to stick my dick in crazy, but considering my grandmas he was clearly joking. Anyway, between Viola, Kráka, and Sif, it was obviously too late to take that advice to heart. What could one more hurt?

“It didn't happen that way, but if you need to believe such nonsense of me to make your life make sense, who am I to disabuse you?”

“A liar and a hypocrite! I knew it!” she said with relish, “but why are you growling? Is that supposed to scare me?”

“You talk too much. Prepare to be royally screwed.”

“I already am.”

“Not like this,” I managed to say before the bear seized control.


Through the thunder in my ears I heard the door open, and as my primary brain regained a minimum of control, I heard the voice of my little witch calling, “STALL INSPECTION!” cutting through Áslaug's repeated cries of “OH GOD!”

What in Odin's name was going on? I was not to be left in darkness for long.

“Áslaug! It is 'My Lord', not 'OH GOD!' when you are praying”, an unfamiliar voice added, “Remember your Bible!”

Female voice, her Danish afflicted by a Greek accent. Who?

“Leontia? Get the Hell out of my room!” Áslaug managed to gasp between divine invocations.

“Don't mind us. Keep up the good work, my stallion!” my little witch called out to me.

“Such a disobedient daughter, Viola. A heathen and revelling in it, destined for Hell. But at least she learned her Bible.” the voice continued. “But he's slacking off if she can put together full sentences. PUNISH HER, GREAT KING! FUCK HARDER, NOT SMARTER!”

Recognition dawned. It was the older Greek hottie. My new mother-in-law. With frankly unsettling advice. But far be it from me to disappoint my mother-in-law, so I urged the bear on. Not that it needed much urging. This was all far too confusing.

“I trust you are satisfied with what you see,” asked my little witch.

“I am, Viola, I am. Not that I doubted you, but it does a mother's heart glad to see her daughter properly submissive to her husband as the Lord intended.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Not at all like she was with my first son-in-law. It was bad enough that she was marrying beneath her station, but though Karl had muscles on his muscles and was the ideal warrior, he had no brains and obeyed her utterly. Truly disgusting.”

“But Sverker, now. I always suspected he was a devil at heart, you know, but seeing is believing... My Lord, he sure knows how to drive a nail home, doesn't he?”

“He sure does. Why, the stories I could tell.” Viola answered proudly.

“And her all tied up, unable to resist. Brings back memories.”

“Good memories I hope, Leontia?”

“Oh, yes. In retrospect, though I certainly did not think so at the time. Did I ever tell you how I got hitched, Viola?”

“I don't think so. I know the general outline, of course – you know how he was when in a boasting mood – but I don't think you ever told me the details.”

“It happened like this. I had been attending this little party in Vienna, hoping to attract a suitor. At 22 years of age I was past my bloom, but my father, God rest his soul, held out for a suitable marriage with the upper nobility to rescue the family fortunes long past reasonable hopes of success.”

“Being a fabled beauty is all well and good, but in the courts of my youth nobody but an idiot would marry for beauty alone, and my father was poor. Had I had the brains to match my beauty I might still have been a contender, but I did not.”

“So I was hunting unmarried wealthy idiots, and when the party got stuffy, I went outside with just such a fool, who fancied himself a poet. A bit of a prize, I thought. This might be just the moron I needed. Hanging on his every word, applauding his awful verse... It was enough to convince me that marriage to him would indeed be a fate worse than death, and I was about to return to the main party when he suddenly went 'uuurk' and the sun went out.”

It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on the job on hand, but one advantage of Áslaug being tied up that I had not anticipated, was that she had few means of showing her displeasure if I slowed down and listened to her mother's story. Which I tried to do. Unfortunately, the bear had other plans and the following is reconstructed as best I can from memory, but much was missed.

“It wasn't the sun going out, of course. I soon realized that I had been bagged, and from the young man's screams I guessed he had been stabbed. The art critic slung me over his shoulder and abducted me. I screamed too, of course, and for better reason, while trying to fight my way out of the bag. Alas, I was upside down and inexperienced in these things so it availed me nothing.”

...Bagging isn't easy either, I thought. Nobody appreciates a craftsman.

“Eventually I lost consciousness, and when I came to I found myself gagged and chained in a little cart being driven by the scourge of the north. I was properly frightened, I should think, anticipating imminent ravishment, torture, and abandonment based on the tales I had heard. So I composed myself and prayed to God for deliverance.”

“I know where this is going,” my little witch said, “Handy Henchmen?”

“Yes, he loved and feared his mighty father in equal measure, but was not averse to copying the best. The henchmen treated me exquisitely, if one ignores carting me off against my will, which I guess one must.”

“Many weeks later they brought me to a warcamp somewhere near the Eider and presented me to their leader, this great beast of a man, who wasted no time having me chained to a pole in his tent and getting rid of my travelling companions.”

“Then he came to inspect me, gabbling at me in the ghastly Danish tongue - forgive me, Viola, but so it seemed to me at the time – and getting handsy. I realized I had been spared so far only to face a higher class of rapist, and I prayed in desperation to God to calm this savage beast.”

“To my great surprise, he suddenly paused his inspection, saying “Excuse me, this is nothing personal” in perfect Greek.”

“Oh, no!” my little witch laughed.

“Oh, yes!” my mother-in-law laughed right back. “I misunderstood the situation completely, considering it a miracle. Which I guess it was, in its way, for God's ways are indeed mysterious and it was years before I understood his plan for me.”

“But in the situation, I thought God had soothed him and gifted him with the civilized tongue, so I addressed him courteously and told him that everything was forgiven and I didn't take his actions personally, but would be please unchain me? He ignored me and began stripping me of my clothes, and every time I tried to speak up, he just said “Excuse me, this is nothing personal.”

“Well, by the time he had stripped me naked and was ogling my body, while his hands were skilfully evoking a rush of new sensations. I was fed up with his excuses and the strangeness of the day and asked him what this was, if not personal?”

“Hah, that's just so typical of him!” my little witch interjected, “Always trying to do things the proper way, always apologizing.”

“Yes it was. I didn't know it at the time, but I was more fortunate than I had any right to be. So there I was, 22 years of age with visions of martyrdom in my mind, and I had just insulted this mighty norse Chieftain who was twice my size, and all he did was scratch his beard while looking distracted, as if trying to solve a puzzle.”

“Eventually he looked straight at me and said, “Excuse me. I am Patriarch but bad at Greek. That was nothing personal. This is something personal”, and proceeded to teach me the difference.”

“It was,” Leontia said nostalgically, “somewhat different from the great romances the poets of my youth had described, though probably closer to the truth of the romances than the poets' sweet lies. None of the teachings on comportment and debate my father had paid painstakingly hoarded coin for to prepare me for a high society marriage seemed appropriate to dealing with a barbarian Patriarch spreading his faith by direct injection. As I had no gift for languages and was never very clever, I put my trust in God and decided to make the best of what seemed, at the the time, a very bad situation.”

“He kept me under strict guard, fearing that I would flee – to where, I ask? - and eventually “Excuse me, this is nothing personal” and “Excuse me, this is something personal” became the language of lovers, signifying our intent. I learned Danish in his arms, and other things besides, and sought to take advantage of his cautious nature.”

“He always feared being attacked while spreading the faith, and given some of the women that were unwillingly brought to his tent while I was there, rightfully so, but I professed love and within weeks he stopped chaining me to the pole or strapping me down on the table when it was personal. He also allowed me to lend a hand strapping them in, when he had other women.”

“I fancied myself such an accomplished seductress”, she sighed, “when he finally stopped bringing in other victims and gave all his attention to me, ignorant as I was that he was merely doing his best to follow his father's commands with what he considered a third rate woman, but one with potential. Brains before brawn. Brawn before beauty. Plough daily.”

“After a few months of that I became pregnant and was shipped off to the capital, where I was given rooms of my own and servants. I was overseen by this stern matron I disliked on first sight, and what a misjudgment of Praxida that turned out to be. In due time our bright Áslaug was born. I remember still the glow in his eyes when he first held her, and in front of all the assembled women, he spoke softly to me in Greek, saying: “Excuse me, this is something personal. You are my queen.” They didn't understand him, of course, but it was,” she said finishing her tale, “so very romantic.”

The women shared a chuckle. There was something there that my mind tried to draw my attention to, but what could it be? I was distracted from continuing the thought, when I realized that the bear had withdrawn and Áslaug lay limp in my grasp. She must have been unresponsive for several minutes while IT operated in autonomous mode for the bear to give up, and I'd been too engrossed by the story to notice. Fortunately a quick check showed she was still breathing. Unfortunately I must have worn her out, which boded ill. Both Kráka and Sif could last much longer.

“Life as his wife certainly wasn't like anything I had ever envisioned back in the carefree days of my youth, but it had its attractions. I never managed to civilize or convert him, and he's in Hell now, suffering until the last day, but he would never have had it otherwise, clinging stubbornly to his false religion to the last. He was a good lover, husband, and father to Áslaug and the twins, hell-bound scamps one and all though they be. I miss him still.”

Something clicked. And it wasn't Áslaug, who had fainted. Perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on her. She was pregnant, after all, even if only in the very early stage, and her arms had been locked in a stupid position for half a day. She was probably just exhausted from the combination. Time to liberate her and get her some food and light exercise once she recovered, then some athletics to get the juices flowing.


“Ladies, would you excuse us? Áslaug needs some time to recover as I rode her too hard, and we are going to be needing all the room for a game of Raid and Capture once she is fit for running. Also, Viola, once I am done here, we need to have a little talk.”

“Sure thing, my stallion!”

“I must apologize for my daughter. The youth of today have no stamina,” my mother-in-law said disapprovingly. “I'll cook some soup that'll have her on her feet quicker than she can say 'modicae fidei, quare dubitasti?'”

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twenty-fourth: The Sverker Diaries, part twenty -
the world of 933-934
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – the morning after

Dear Diary,

After a memorable morning, my little witch and I had a serious talk. I was annoyed upon realizing that she had managed to saddle me with yet another of Baldr's daughters despite my stated opposition to the very idea, and upset that she had lied about it. Well, perhaps not lied, but at least she had creatively misinterpreted my directives.

I had few expectations of the conversation, but it was necessary, however much it might hurt. I started gently to ease the way into the harder topics, but the conversation went off on a tangent from the start and turned out even stranger than anything I could possibly have imagined.


“Little witch. I am not happy. Not happy at all.”

“You sounded happy enough earlier playing Raid and Capture. The house shook to your roar of triumph when you ran Áslaug down.”

“...I blame the soup.”

“Oh, dear. You should have known better than to eat Leontia's soup. That was for Áslaug alone. Added to your natural drive, I shudder to think of the experience. Better her than me.”

“What do you mean by that? NO. Forget the soup. I have some questions for you that cannot wait.”

“I am listening, my stallion.”

“That stall inspection... What must Leontia think of me?”

“She thinks you have improved greatly since we were her and Baldr's wards.”

...I knew she seemed familiar!

“And thus Áslaug is one of uncle Baldr's daughters.”

“Yes, and?”

“I may be going potty before my time, but I could have sworn that you assured me my new wife was an aged widow and definitely not one of uncle Baldr's children.”

“Has the morning's exercise scrambled your brain, my stallion? Why would I do that?”

“But... I checked my diary, and when we agreed on Áslaug, I did ask you...” I said, confused.

“What you did, my potty stallion, was ask me whether I suggested Karl's widow Áslaug because of Kráka and Sif missing their sister, and I explained that she earned her way onto the waiting list by merit.”

...What? Waiting list? No. Focus. Deal with that later.

“It was very considerate of you to ask me,” my little witch beamed at me, “considering the trouble you went to kill him to get her in the first place.”

“Errrr...”

“I must admit I was a bit worried due to the well-known rift between the daughters of Praxida and Leontia, and of course Áslaug was too old to be an ideal pick, but you clearly intended to have your way, dismissing my 3P candidates out of hand. You didn't even want to meet her to see how she felt about the whole 'marrying my husband's killer' issue, so much did you lust for her... or perhaps you considered her feelings irrelevant. Which was it?”

“Errrr...”

...The day's events as written in my diary fresh in memory, I guess Viola could have interpreted my remarks like that. I felt sick.

“You were so in lust, my stallion”, she chuckled. “You didn't even confirm that we were talking about Áslaug, plain refused to have me name her, which did worry me at the time,” my little witch said contemplatively, “because theoretically there could have been other widows matching the profile, but then I realized that you were affirming your trust in me to discern your will without words. You are sweet when you do that, my stallion.”

I am not sweet! But her words made me feel better nevertheless. How does she manage to do that?

“But...”

“But what? You are seldom so incoherent. What is troubling you?”

“Áslaug believe I killed her husband to take her as a wife.”

“You could hardly expect her not to catch on, my stallion.”

“But I didn't!”

“You didn't? Did Karl lose his head in a freak shaving-accident, perhaps? Áslaug told me you forced her to watch while you chopped it off, but perhaps she was mistaken.”

“NO! I mean, yes. I did chop off his head, but it was for adultery with the wife of one of his chiefs. The law is clear.”

“And did you chop off the head of the chief's wife as well?”

“No. Why would I want to do that?” I asked, puzzled. Just where was she going with this?

“And since when have you started taking an interest in anybody's sex life other than your own? For that matter, how about punishing adultery with death rather than leaving such minor matters to those involved? Is that new policy?”

“Errr...”

“And since when have you started caring about adultery?”

“Err...”

“And since when have you,” she began, but she got no further, for I had had enough.

“Confound it, little witch. If you must have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” I said, before she cut me short.

“I don't.” she grinned.

“Well, you'll get it. I killed him because Kráka and Sif would be sad if I didn't punish him for making their sister sad. It seemed a practical solution to the problem.”

“Thus ignoring that actually killing him rather than giving him a slap of the wrist would make their sister even more sad?” my little witch asked.

“Why would I care about her feelings?” I asked.

“No particular reason. How about Sif and Kráka's feelings?

“I don't care about their feelings either. You know that. Oh, I'll humour them if it suits me, but care? You've got to be joking! I care about you, and only you.”

“You say the sweetest things, my stallion, but I believe you just made my case for me.” she said.

“What case?”

“Engage your prodigious intellect, my stallion, and consider this: What is more likely. That you a) executed a loyal Jarl due to showing consideration for women and then went on to marry his unhappy wife by fortunate coincidence, or b) that you lusted after the wife of a loyal Jarl and executed him to take his unhappy wife, will she or nill she.”

When she put it like that, I guess she had a point. It sounded an awful lot like b) to me, and I am me. I mean, Áslaug was a women well worth stealing - anybody could see that – and eccentricities notwithstanding she was better suited for my bedchamber than one of my moronic Jarls. Also, killing the husband was the traditional way of handling such things, and who could possibly object to that?

“As an intellectual exercise, I will answer b). But only under protest. It wasn't like that at all!”

“A likely story, my stallion.”



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – a week after my wedding

Dear Diary,

Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

For a week I have honoured Áslaug at night and in the morning, as she tries to exhaust me for the coming day.

For a week I have broken my fast in a room as frosty as Niefelheim, as Sif, Kráka, and Áslaug trades barbs.

For a week both Kráka and Sif have laid cunning ambushes during the day, dropping in on me at work for a talk, or accidentally dropping something and stooping over, or falling into my lap when I'm sitting, or accidentally tripping but fortunately being caught because I happen to be on hand, and usually one thing leads to another, because one really has to admire their persistence. I just wish they wouldn't shout loud enough to wake the dead when they run off to update the scoreboard. It can be rather embarrassing to explain to those who'd been waiting for an audience with the king, and I am never the best at lying at such times.

For a week the four of us have provided amusement for my little witch, who rather than reining in the sister-wives cheer on their competition.

I am beat.

I have had enough.

I am not “good to the last drop.”

This is not a life worth living.

I need a plan.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – eight days after my wedding

Dear Diary,

I am a genius. Marriage is a sacred bond, and I am Fylkir! Time for a revelation!



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – ten days after my wedding

Dear Diary,

Today is the day! After breakfast, I took my little witch aside to inform her about the upcoming changes and I had caught her completely off guard for once! She never saw it coming.


“Little witch,” I said, “I have some thoughts about my wives I want to share.”

“You've come to the right person, my stallion,” she grinned at me. “If you aren't satisfied with Áslaug, it is not too late to marry one or both of the two 3P guaranteed prospects I had for you. One of them resides in Norway, but the other one is visiting family in Cornwall and could easily be here for a wedding in two weeks, should you so desire. Should I set it up for you?”

“Viola?”

“Yes?”

“This is not going to happen.”

“Too soon, is it? You are probably right. Better to wait until after the next raiding season.”

“I am not going to marry after the next raiding season either.”

“Now you are just being unreasonable. Are you thinking of waiting half a year? There is plenty of room in the stables!”

“I am not thinking of waiting half a year.”

“Whew, you had me worried there. You are dancing around the subject, my stallion. What exactly do you mean?”

“Read my lips: No new wives.”

“What?”

“I am serious.”

“But...why? Think of the Grand Plan!”

“I have had a vision from the All-father!”

“Colour me surprised.”

“Henceforth no man may marry more than four women on pain of having his manhood cut off and shoved up his arse.”

“Well, I guess I can always fill the remaining stalls with thralls.”

“And furthermore, treating thralls as if they were concubines is an offence to the Gods and the sacred institution of marriage. Concubinage was forbidden for good reason. Rogering the occasional thrall is fine, everybody does that, well, everybody who isn't as fortunate in their marriage as I am, but any thrall that is treated like a concubine must be killed or freed and married to her owner, subject to the provision aforementioned.

“WHAT!?”

“Finally, the All-father gave me a bit of personal advice regards structuring the household, and this is how it will be done.

The fourth day of the week, Odin's day, is sacred: It is my day, and you make no schedule for it. I may rest alone or spend the evening with any wife I choose. This will bring me closer to the divine communion shared by Odin and Frigg.”

“In other word, when you are not lazing around, you plan to spend Wednesdays with me.”

“I might not.”

“WHAT!?” my little witch shouted, completely wrong-footed for once.

“Just my little joke.” I smirked, and continued: “The sixth day of the week, Frigg's day, all wives fit for duty play a game, with the winner claiming me for the night, and whether the score for this night is tallied on the scoreboard or not is up to the sole discretion of the winner.”

“I am appalled.”

“Too bad. It is my will. I mean Odin's.”

“Sure it is.”

“Finally, the remaining five days, Sun's day, Moon's day, Tyr's day, Thor's day, and Washing day, are all to be scheduled in the usual manner. Now, for the duties of the wives: Áslaug will present the public face, as was your plan all along. You will maintain control of the household and wifely schedule with the exceptions I just mentioned. Kráka is in charge of making up games for Frigg's day. Sif is in charge of... well, I really can't think of anything to put her in charge of, but since you are in charge of running the household, I'm sure you'll think up something.”

“Are you out of your mind, Sverker?” she shouted.

“No. This is how it will be. Would you prefer me to introduce this new schedule to my three sister-wives tomorrow at breakfast, or will you inform them yourself?”

“I will tell them.”

“I thought that was how you would see it, little witch.”



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

This marks the first week on the new regime – and my freedom!

I relaxed with my little witch on Wednesday, just friendly cuddling. Kráka gave up her ambushes in favour of designing a party game for Friday. Sif stayed mostly to herself and watered the children or whatever chores it is my wives do when I'm not around. Áslaug is still mental, but putting in a grand official performance, relieving the strain on my little witch.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Winter will be over soon; As relaxing as the last weeks have been, I must say I am looking forwards to the fighting season.

Perhaps I was divinely inspired with my new schedule, but I prefer to give myself all the credit. I deserve it. The household has quieted and everybody is on their best behaviour... Except for my little witch, who is making some point or another to me by not letting a single day of the last three weeks be an s-day, despite Sif being healthy and not with child. But I'll be blasted if I can figure out what her point is – Sif can't possibly still be ahead on points due to that epic chess night and the following week of ambushes.

Overall, I am feeling myself again. Which, granted, is natural. Who else would I feel like? But it is reassuring.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Winter is coming to a close and it is time for campaigning. I set sail now for the lands of my fathers to meet interesting people and kill them. THIS is what I was made for.

Savouring the coming spring, I WILL CONQUER!

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twenty-fifth: The Sverker Diaries, part twenty-one -
the world of 934
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

There is much to be said for a simple, safe, and uncomplicated life. Especially when compared to the complexities at home, where I risk ambush at any moment. To say nothing of the dangers inherent to rulership amongst the Danes.

The sea breeze. Sailing up rivers into the unknown. Landing and taking unsuspecting villages by storm. Fighting people who earnestly want to kill you, and making free with their treasures and their women when they die.

This is the life!

No nonsense, no questions. Spreading the faith old-school and putting the fun back in fundamentalist. Boldly going where few Danes has gone before! The luxury of several nights with uninterrupted sleep in a row, leaving your body in fine trim and ready to take out your aggression fuelled by sexual deprivation on the next poor sod to oppose you.

What's not to like? Getting killed or maimed, I guess, but so far I have avoided that.

I have been fortunate. Half my left pinky gone and my fair share of scars to the front tell tales of my valour, but few scars on my back, and those I came by honourably. They tell different tales, of women clawing my back in ecstasy or desperation.

Except for the big bite mark on my left buttock left by a sheepdog, when it took offence to my entertaining a lonely shepherdess on the moors of Ireland and chomped down while I was distracted. How my little witch had laughed.

But I digress.

I'm back at the front, killing time and people as the conquest resumes, but mostly people.

I'm loving it.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Scarcely two weeks into the campaign, and I have received reinforcements from England. This came as a bit of a surprise as I had neither ordered reinforcements nor needed them, but given the opportunistic nature of my people where every man fancies himself a potential chief if he isn't one already, not a great one.

They arrived late in the day, two splendid ships laden with warriors, and as it turned out they were led by one of my neighbours, Svend the Hairless.

He had recently discovered grey in his hair (I didn't ask) and upon receiving this reminder of his age and mortality decided to outfit two ships and join the fun with some of his lads, that he might relive his youth or die in the attempt.

A very plausible story, but clearly not all of the story.

For he was accompanied by Toke the Silent and Thorkell the Wolf of Lejre, two of the handy henchmen who were supposed to be on duty back home, protecting my family.

They must have been sent by my little witch, and the choice of henchmen suggested that there was a story to be had, though perhaps not in public. Thorkell was renowned for his discretion, and Toke spoke only sparingly. Nobody knew what he was saving his words for, but given the Trollish streak in his blood courtesy of a great-grandmother who'd unwillingly done her part to strengthen inter-species relations, or so it was said, perhaps it was better so.

I told them to follow me to the house I had taken for my use in this miserable village, but Thorkell said, “carpet”, and to my surprise they picked up a great rolled-up carpet from where it was lying on the ground before following me. Did Viola think I needed a carpet on campaign?

I was soon to find out.

Once indoors and safe from being overheard, I demanded answers, and Thorkell gave them, laconically as always. Viola had ordered them to go, so they did. They brought gifts from my wives to strengthen me on campaign, all neatly hidden from prying eyes in the carpet. Toke grunted at that, and I must admit that I could see his point. I ordered them to stand guard outdoors until I had something for them to do.

Then I bent down to unroll the carpet, but it was a lot heavier than I expected, and as I was trying to get a good grip on it – it sneezed!

I gave it a huge heave in surprise, and it rapidly unrolled in front of me, and what did I find in its centre?

Sif. A very dizzy Sif.

That's no way to transport any of my wives, not even one as addled as Sif, and I was about to call the henchmen to punish them, when she called out to me from the floor and I was reminded of priorities. Such as, what was she doing here? I was soon to find out.

“What in the name of my great-father Odin is going on, Sif?” I asked, confusion and anger warring for control of my voice, with confusion narrowly securing a victory.

She got to her feet with her back to me, and swaying slightly, she began speaking.

“Don't be angry with them, Sverker. The carpet was Viola's idea.” she said, as if that explained anything. “She said it was traditional, and I was only rolled up once we saw shore. If not for the dust it might even have been comfortable, but as it is, I rate the experience 1/5. Would not be rolled up again.”

The unrolling must have scrambled her wits, such as they were.

“Relax, Sif. Get a grip on yourself, then turn around and tell me why you are you here.” I told her gently.

Athletic as always and quick as an adder, she spun to me, but overdid the rotation and did a full circle, undoubtedly adding to her confusion, and once again facing away from me she spoke up, saying, “I am your bodyguard and I bring lists!”

There was only one thing to do. I took her in my arms to steady her. She flinched and went stiff like a board.

I hugged her close, and gradually the stiffness left her limbs and she leaned back into my chest, relaxing and enjoying my attention.

“This is nice. What was it you wanted to know?” she asked.

“Why are you here, Sif? Not that I am not always delighted to see my wives, but it is passing strange, you must admit.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.” I said, giving her a little friendly squeeze.

“It is my new role. The big reorganization left me without a role, possibly because I had been a tiny bit uncooperative in the bygone days of my youth...”

“Half a year ago...” I couldn't stop myself from muttering

“But Viola happily found a solution! Since you had refused to marry a warrior-wife like Dalla, who while admittedly a bit on the young side would still make you a much better wife than that viper Áslaug, you have nobody to keep you company on campaign.”

Uh-oh. Sleep deprivation alert. I could see where this was going.

“And since I am pretty good at unarmed combat, having learned how to protect my virtue, and furthermore know all there is to know of military theory, my role is to keep you alive and warm at night while on campaign, while ceding my time with you while we are at home unless the others are indisposed. Apart from my victories in the Friday games, that is.”

That was one mystery explained. Oh, yes, Viola had been much too meek in accepting the new household regime.

“Pardon me for asking,” I said, giving her a loving squeeze, “but do you mean every night? I know that you still flinch from my touch unless you consciously subdue that unnatural reaction, a legacy of childish fantasies that still haunt your mind, and surely that would be hard on you. I would not want for you to be uncomfortable.”

“Well, not Wednesdays, obviously. Those are yours according to the rules.”

“Obviously not Wednesdays, but six nights a week?”

“Obviously not on nights when you are outbreeding with foreign women either, should that duty extend into the night. Viola definitely wants you to continue your good work there – it is of vital importance to the Grand Plan. But on all the other nights... Well, I am allowed to miss a few, but I have to meet a quota.”

“Obviously.” I said, my heart sinking. I had rather been shirking my duties with regards to spreading the faith firsthand, having cut down on outbreeding in favour of sleep. Happily she couldn't see my face, for I must have looked incredibly guilty.

“In fact – and please don't take this wrong, Sverker – one of my duties is to keep a record of your outbreeding.”

It was monstrous. And getting worse.

“She didn't say it, but I think she suspects you of shirking your duties. You didn't bring back any good tales for Kráka to make games of from the last campaign, and you didn't boast of your conquests either. Hence the lists.”

My little witch had always known me better than anybody else did, and upon occasion better than I did, but I really wished this had not been one of those occasions. But wait, what was that about lists?

“The lists?”

“To help you focus on the Grand Plan, we were all invited to write a wishing list for you. Would you read them now?”

This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

I could feel the noose of destiny right enough, so I answered in the affirmative and Sif retrieved them from their safe storage in her bodice. They were warm as befit the subject.

My little witch wished for me to ravish 2 duchesses, 4 countesses, 8 baronesses - or their local rank equivalents – as well as 16 of their daughters, all of ages 16 to 40. And if I couldn't lay my hands on a suitable number of duchesses, countesses, and baronesses in the right age band, substituting additional daughters would be acceptable with a preference of younger and, underlined, more fertile ones. Plus targets of opportunity at my discretion, because she didn't want to hamper my spontaneous enjoyment. Her mind might work in mysterious and occasionally disturbing ways, but it sure was sharp and to the point.

Áslaug, on the other hand, wished for me to rape nine specific women, giving their name and address. And instructions on how I was to violate them. Disturbing instructions in some cases. Where would I get fresh celery this time of the year?

“Friends of hers?” I asked Sif.

“Might be. I believe most are foreign neighbours who slighted her, but with that snake, who knows? It would be like her to take revenge on friends as well for minor slights when she had the chance. I think Viola weeded out all those whose husbands are loyal subjects, but you had better check, just in case she missed one.” she answered me, and continued, “It was a much longer list originally.”

And several on Áslaug's list were of rank to satisfy Viola's list, so if I treated them as twofers, this didn't add all that many to the thirty I was already obligated to have a go at by my little witch. This might not be quite as bad as I had feared.

Kráka's list was next and demonstrated that spirit of playful experimentation and games so characteristic of her better qualities, but even so... No, just no!

“Does she REALLY expect me to line up all the virgins in a conquered village and starting at one end of the line, ravish them one by one in full sight of the village to see how many I can handle?”

“Yes? That's the best part of raiding. Our father always said so.”

“Nobody does that. I TOLD her so when she flaunted that idiotic idea the first time!”

“Are you calling our father a liar?”

“Yes. It is the kind of stupid thing men boast of, but nobody does. How would it even work? The women would undoubtedly escape or mill around or mob me before I'd completed a dozen. It is ridiculous!”

“That's why you chain them to poles, silly. Granted that our father often lied, he always brought poles and chains with him when raiding. Leontia says he only needed one for his tent, so he must have been using the rest for something. Viola was all for the Kráka's idea, and Áslaug knew father's supplier, so Svend the Hairless is bringing enough equipment for a village with forty virgins, which seems optimistic to me. She must think you can do a whole town.”

They were mad. All of my wives. Mad.

“I shudder to ask, but do you have a list as well?”

“Indeed I do, and I thank you for asking.”

Her list was shorter. Much shorter. It consisted of a single word, “Me.”

I turned it over to look at the other side of the parchment, but it was blank. It really was just that one word. Had I misjudged her? Did she love me or desire my body that much? That hardly seemed likely. Better to ask.

“You?”

She sighed contentedly.

“Funny thing, Sverker, During the voyage I worked on a speech to answer that question, revising it again and again. There was a splendid denunciation and a clarion call to action, but standing here, resting in your arms, I can hardly concentrate to recall it.”

“That might be because I am fondling your breasts. Restless hand syndrome. Many women find it distracting.”

She took a while to consider my diagnosis, then emitted a short happy sound, and answered.

“No, I don't think that is it. I think it is because I feel safe in your arms. Like I belong here. I didn't expect that.”

“Of course you belong there. You are mine.”

“I guess I am, at that.” she said, contemplating the notion, and I don't know who of us was the most surprised at the pleasure in her voice.

“Soooo... the reason for your list being so short is?” I ventured.

“Oh, that. Why would I wish to inflict you on other women? What am I, a monster?

“I don't understand.” I said, flummoxed.

“I know, and that's part of the tragedy.”

“Are you saying that Viola, and Kráka, and Áslaug are monsters?” I asked cautiously. This was new territory, and I didn't want to spoil the occasion.

“Of course not,” she answered, “except for Áslaug, but that's not why.”

“Then what? Is it because you want me all for yourself?”

“You wish,” she chuckled, “but no, that's not it. Sharing is caring. It is just that I am not in favour of rape, that's all. I hate it.” she answered, sounding resigned, as if explaining something to a particularly slow-witted child she knew wouldn't understand, but trying nevertheless out of duty.

Sif was clearly the maddest of them all. It was traditional as well as enjoyable, a family-friendly activity and, indeed, one of the activities most likely to enlarge it. What was not to like?

“Not even of heathens? That is practically a sacred duty.”

“Not even of heathens, Sverker. You wouldn't understand.”

She was right about that! It was completely irrational. Oh, I had met the occasional woman, who objected to being raped even after trying it, but some people are never satisfied. Though I try.

And in all fairness I could see myself objecting as well, were I to fall victim to an unskilled woman, or an unpleasant one, or a manshagger. Same as how cutting somebody up in battle seems a jolly good idea when you are on the dealing end, but can be a real bummer when you are on the receiving. But that hardly stops us from fighting, does it? What an insane notion.

So I could understand if she objected on her own behalf, but being against it in general? The mind boggled. As well object to killing, or bathing, or enjoying the sunshine. Living without life's little pleasures would hardly be a life worth living at all!

On the other hand, my primary brain reminded me, consider cauliflower.

And it had a point.

I hate like cauliflower and no amount of people telling me it is a foreign delicacy has ever convinced me to. My dislike is irrational and emotional, but it is mine and it won't change. Cauliflower is just awful, and if others want to indulge, well, that's their business. But don't expect me to approve of it.

And thinking back to the early days of our marriage, Sif had been rather strident on the violation issue. So perhaps rape is to Sif as cauliflower is to me.

It struck me that however much she had pestered me during the early months of our marriage, she had never taken me to task for avoiding cauliflower, not even once. Thinking about it, she had really been very understanding of the issue, which was very sweet of her. Even then she must have fancied me a lot more than she let on, which I had always suspected, but it was good to have confirmation.

I felt a warm glow of kinship: She didn't like rape and I didn't like cauliflower, but unreasonable minds can disagree, and we both loved me. Why would I make a big deal of her perverse preferences, when we had so much in common?

“That explains it,” I said generously, “and since you are pleasure, not business, I thank you for not adding to my workload.”

“You say the sweetest things, Sverker.”

And so we stood in companionable silence for several minutes and all was well with the world, and if in my heart I wished it was Viola standing there, who can blame me? But Sif made a decent second best.

“Funny thing, Sif. I really ought to be getting on with the day's work, but standing here, with you resting in my arms, I can hardly concentrate.”

“That might be because I am fondling Archimedes Lever. Restless hand syndrome. Many men find it distracting.” she echoed me, her voice slightly tinged by some emotion I couldn't identify. She had sneakily infiltrated my trousers while we were talking! No wonder I was thinking of my little witch!

“My goodness, Sif! I didn't think you had it in you.”

“Did I do it wrong?” she asked me, sounding normal again, and miserable.

“What? Explain yourself.”

“I asked Viola how to act seductively, and she suggested I use my hand, and I did it all wrong and now you are angry and I am so stupid,”, she cried, not letting me get a word in edgewise, “I'll pull it out now.” Sif answered, dejected.

Sif attempting seduction? Truly I lived in an age of miracles. What would she think of next?

“Don't stop! You did fine! Just fine.” I encouraged her. “All you lack is experience, and remember: Practice makes perfect!” I said, and gave her a loving squeeze, which she returned. My eyes crossed and my voice rose an octave, “Though perhaps apply a bit less pressure.”

Concentration was getting harder, and it wasn't the only thing.

“So, Sverker, hypothetically speaking, were I to pull IT out now,” she asked me in that strange voice I now realized was her attempt at sounding seductive, “what are the odds you would end up punning, My goodness, Sif, I didn't think you had IT in you?”

“Better than average,” I growled, “and it is cruel to disable my puns in advance.”

She sighed deeply, then spoke in her normal voice: “Too bad it is Wednesday.”

“Err...What?” She was confusing me, and I don't like being confused when my secondary brain is diverting most of my resources.

“It means I'll have to stop so you can relax,” she said, pulling out her hand - empty. “Divine regulations, I'm afraid. I'll send Thorkell to get my luggage and have it delivered to our room - I assume we have a room? - but don't worry, I promise I'll behave myself tonight. Just the two of us, side by side, sleeping.”

“Sif,” I began, then had to subdue the bear within, and it was a close thing but I wanted the last word, “your long overdue discovery of sarcasm is as ill-timed as it is inappropriate. On Wednesdays, I choose, and today I choose you!”

“Yes! Growl for me. Show me you still care,” she teased, “and I'll beat Viola's quoooooooh oooh harder oooh dear Freya, quooooooh how many oh god ahhh that was good you quooooooooooooo foiled again MORE, MORE I'M STILL NOT SATISFIED – wait, I'm in the zone: QUOTA. Testing, testing. I can speak without interfererence! - I'm going to beat Viola's quotaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh great goddess, how many days have you been deprived, Sverker? Noooo, don't aaaaaaaanswer.” as determined as I to have the last word, regardless of circumstances.

The last thing I remember before the bear took control was Sif blushing furiously, and when we were done I asked her why.

“I heard your henchmen speaking from beyond the door,” she muttered, blushing all over again at the thought of a public performance.

“I think he missed her,” said Thorkell.

“Sounds like a hit to me,” said Toke.

My henchmen are a bundle of laughs. Fortunately I don't employ them for their sense of humour.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Sif is a genius.

Her unnatural preference does not interfere with her sense of duty, or possibly it is her fear of Viola, but either works for me. Based on available information, she has plotted a shortest-path campaign for me that will hit all Áslaug's targets and meet Viola's outbreeding quotas (acts of the gods excepted) while leaving me a month to focus on conquest before the season ends.

One good deed deserves another, so I have carefully erased the sections from Áslaug's list that required Sif's participation. I wonder whether Áslaug included Sif to reward her or to punish her, or ditto the target, or whether she perhaps did it thinking I would be pleased? So many questions, but they can wait.

I will probably have to short-change some of the baronesses and daughters, doing them in job lots rather than paying them the individual attention they deserve, and Kráka's deranged village request makes the scheduling even tighter, but that's large scale war for you: It loses that intimate personal touch.


MERRY CHRISTMAS.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 7 -
the world of 934
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Sif is not always a genius.

Sif's solution to the problem of whether Áslaug meant ascending or descending order of age, when paying my respects to her sworn enemy, the wife of the high chieftain of Waah-ooof-arrgj-hoch-und-wasserpissen, and her four daughters, left much to be desired.

“Why don't you ask her? She knows them best, after all,” answered Sif, when I asked.

A novel idea, but worth a try, I thought. So I had them rounded up, showed the wishing list, and asked. Well, the first was a waste of time as they were illiterate, and as for the second, it unfortunately turned out that while my men had frisked the women carefully before presenting them, they had somehow missed their weapons.

As I realized when all five drew knives and attacked me.

So I am now five short for Viola's target numbers and have failed at one of Áslaug's wishes, and to add spite to injury Áslaug's enemy drenched her wishing list in blood and much of it is now illegible.

I guess that means Sif has to entertain me tonight.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Last week I. Wait. Is it really a week since I updated my diary and descended into nightmare? It must be. FOCUS SVERKER!

Last week, as we were approaching the small town of Blah-aarrg-gobblegabble-on-the-river (or so it sounded to me), my dearwife Sif suggested that this would be the ideal time to satisfy Kráka's wish.

I told her that she was mad, that it was not going to happen, and I'd entertain a few comely prospects and have her for an after-dinner snack instead.

She told me sweetly that the red troll was visiting, so this was not going to happen.

So I mentioned how the red troll seemed to visit her on an irregular and most inconvenient schedule, and wasn't it just two weeks since its last visit?

In retrospect this was a mistake, I thought, as I unsteadily got to my feet.

So I agreed that upon consideration her suggestion had merit.

And she told me to go forth and slaughter, and that she'd have the thralls bring out the poles and chains and get everything prepared for the post-conquest line-up.

And I asked, still a bit groggy from her flying kick, how I'd know which women were virgins to be included in the line-up, since hither-ho I had performed such determination by pragmatic hands-on investigation, so to speak, and this sorting required prior knowledge.

“Why don't you ask them? They know, after all,” answered Sif, when I asked.

So we went forth and a good time was had by all as we slaughtered the defenders. Limbs flying, yards of entrails and gallons of blood spilt all over the place. The usual.

Afterwards I interrogated the surviving women of breeding age with the help of a native who spoke the language, all 341 of them, and guess what? Sif was wrong.

The tally was 17 to 324, and I thought to myself that 17 wasn't too bad. No art to it, and probably little entertainment as I wouldn't have time to devote myself to the individual acts, but the day was still young and I'd easily be done by nightfall.

No such luck.

By the second I had my suspicions, and the actions of the third absolutely confirmed them. She enjoyed herself too much, and her work was not the work of an amateur. I was in the clutches of a professional, probably a merry widow, who had taken advantage of me to satisfy her base desires, thus inflating my workload!

And if the deceitful women gave false positives, were there false negatives as well? Had any of the qualified virgins escaped Kráka's wish simply by stating they were experienced, despite being told of the importance of the experiment? Would they dare? Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised. Sif's idea of asking them was half-baked to begin with.

There was nothing to it. Some times the old ways are the best, no matter how exhausting they are. Resigned to do my duty I excused the three I had already done, and sent my men to fashion more poles. I ordered the remaining 338 sorted by name to avoid arguments about precedence and prepared to come to grips with the alphabet. This was going to take a while.

And it did. Day after day after day.

Being high king is all hard work and no play. I am never doing this again. It was a stupid idea to begin with, and I told Kráka and Sif, but did they listen? Of course not.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Sif is a genius.

Today we approached Sneeze-cough-and-arkle-on-the-river, home to one of Áslaug's acquaintances. Countess Maria Sophia of “just south and west of my home in Prussia; She's an expatriate Irish, has haughty airs, is 16 or 17 years old, and didn't invite me to her recent wedding. You can't miss her.”

The list told me to treat her “gently, like a stupid cow”, but an explanatory paragraph had been blotted out by blood and I had no idea whether she was friend or foe as that headline could be interpreted either way.

“Why don't you ask her? She knows best whether she's a friend, after all,” answered Sif, when I asked, to my complete lack of surprise.

Áslaug's perverse personality notwithstanding, this Maria Sophia probably did know, but even if she did, would she tell me the truth if lying seemed the safer answer? Given recent experiences that seemed a fraught proposition. But third time pays for all, it is said, so I was willing to give it a try. How bad could it be compared to last week?

But first there was work to do. I bade Sif a good morning, gathered my warriors, and slaughtered the local levies. In the confusion of battle I chopped up somebody who was probably the Count as he was large and in charge, but for a smooth transition of power it is better to make sure, so I bagged his head and brought it along as we overran the palisade protecting his seat of power.


Dear Diary,

My men rounded up the three wealthiest and healthiest looking young women and presented them to me in the chieftain's hall after frisking them for weapons. The catch consisted of a plain redhead, a saucy blonde giving me a come-hither look, who appeared to have enjoyed the frisking rather more than decency called for, and an inscrutable brunette.

“Hello, Ladies,” I greeted them. “Sorry to bother you, but would you be kind enough to help me with a matter of identification?”

There was no response. They were frozen, does caught by the wolf's stare.

“Please, Ladies,” I addressed them again, carefully enunciating each word as I emptied my bag, “is this the Count?”

They stared as the head rolled across the floor, and then the blonde answered me in bad Danish in a somewhat agitated voice, “he has his looks, but that's not him,” and I had just begun cursing my bad luck, when she continued, hysterically, “the Count is... taller”. At which point the brunette smacked her soundly, and affirmed that it was, indeed, the Count, or at least a fairly important part of him.

“Thank you. Now, let's get down to business, I am afraid you must contain your joy, for I have bad news. Were this a raid you'd have the run of the mansion and be subject to the traditional penalty upon capture by my men as you no doubt anticipate.”

I saw recognition dawning in their eyes. They were clearly looking forwards to it, and it seemed almost a shame to disappoint them, but needs must.

“I'll admit that it is a merry game that is not without an element of skill, with the lucky winners carried off to Denmark in style as thralls or wives, and with the losers discarded after use to live out the rest of their drab and wretched lives here in the arse-end of nowhere. And believe me, under other circumstances I'd have loved to give you the traditional experience, but I am sure you see the problem.”

They remained frozen. A captive audience, but an unappreciative one. So I decided to cut to the chase.

“Since this is a war of conquest and we are here to stay, what would be the point of carrying you back to Denmark when this becomes Denmark? Seems a lot of effort to little gain for me. Thus as much as it pains me to say, I believe a more civilized approach is called for and we can engage in diplomatic intercourse to ensure a smooth transition of power. With me so far?”

The blonde and the brunette looked to the redhead, who stopped staring at the floor and answered, “I guess so?”

My heart sank. From the moment I laid my eyes on them, I'd been certain the blonde was the Countess, but apparently not.

“I believe introductions are in order. I am Sverker, High King of the North, and I believe that you,” I addressed the redhead, “are the late Count's wife, but who are your companions? They wouldn't happen to be chief's wives, would they? Ideally of baronial rank equivalent or higher? Or possibly the daughters of such stalwart rulers?

I had no such luck. The redhead was indeed the Countess, but the others were her ladies in waiting, the pick of the local villages.

So I told Toke and Thorkell to escort the ladies-in-waiting to another room and post a guard on this one, so I could discuss the diplomatic settlement and the Countess' future role in its administration in private.

“My dear wife Áslaug made a list for me of people she knew back here, with explicit suggestions on how to treat them, but unfortunately the list was damaged during my visit to the late rulers of Blah-aarrg-gobblegabble, and I can't make out whether you are considered friend or foe and the treatment I am to give you... Well, let's just say it leaves the question open.”

“Friend! I am her best friend!” said the Countess.

“That's what I expected you to say, and it says to treat you gently, which would seem to support this. But on the other hand, it also says you are a stupid cow and should be treated like one, and why would Áslaug say that about a friend? I was going to leave it to luck, but my dear wife Sif, who is campaigning with me this season, suggested I ask you rather than throw runes to decide the outcome. Talk about a novel approach! Do you have anything to show that you are Áslaug's best friend or to explain why she would want her friend treated like a cow?”

“It was a party game! Things get pretty dull out here, and posing as animals and guessing which is a great game if you are drunk enough. I am particularly proud of my cow pose, and it impressed even Áslaug, who is not easily impressed.”

That was either the truth or an impressive fabrication on short notice, but how would I know which? I must have looked sceptical, for she continued:

“I am sure that she must have described this in-joke in the damaged part of your list.”

She might have. As I contemplated the issue, a potentially amusing way of uncovering the truth suggested itself to me.

And if it hadn't been for the darned assassin, a good time would have been had by all.

But I must finish this entry now. The Countess is recovering and I have questions.

 

[Peter Ebbesen]

Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twenty-sixth: The Sverker Diaries, part twenty-two
the world of 934
​

Spoiler: ”Current Prophets & Religion”

The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I snatch this brief moment of piece to write further on the matters of the afternoon, before the Countess rallies.

“Then strike the cow pose for me, and if it is good enough, I'll take your point as proven.” I said to her by way of encouragement.

A look of surprise briefly took lodgings upon her face, then a more steely determination took hold as she answered in the affirmative.

“Moo!” said the Countess, and went down on her hands and knees, and Freyr help me if she wasn't the spitting image of a cow, if rather better dressed.

“I am unconvinced. How could anybody say whether that was a cow or a horse pose, or, perhaps, a badger in a dress? My wife Áslaug would never be impressed by that.”

“We played the game in summer wearing lighter clothes.”

“I'm sure you did, but you aren't now, are you? I'm afraid I'll have to put you down as a foe, but no hard feelings for trying to fool me. Shows pluck. Anyhow, being treated as Áslaug's foe isn't that bad.”

“It isn't?” she asked cautiously from the floor.

“Well, if you must know, part of it is. But not all of it, and several of those I have visited so far were positively surprised.”

“And the rest?”

“That's nothing to worry your little head about.” I answered her kindly.

She jumped to her feet and stripped faster than I would have thought possible, then resumed the pose. That was more like it!

“That is pretty good, but the shivering rather spoils the effect. Be a good cow and walk to the fireplace.”

“That's where my dead husband is!” she objected.

“Your point being?”

She crawled carefully to the fireplace avoiding his head, then called defiantly over her shoulder, “Better?”

As I had been watching her walk, it definitely had been. Not much like a cow's walk, admittedly, but it had its attractions. Had I thought her plain looking before? If so, IT disagreed, struggling to escape its confines.

“Hmm... yes, definitely better, but there is something missing,” I said, and went to collect the head.

I placed the head on a small stool facing her, and admired my work while she shrank from it in revulsion.

“Almost you convince me, Countess. Save for some rookie mistakes, that's an idyllic picture of a cow united with her bull.” I said, “But I can't help noticing your back arching upwards; That is usually a sign of discomfort. Are you uncomfortable with the situation?”

“No!” she lied, eyeing the count. “My mistake. I didn't know that. My parents bred sheep, not cows.”

“Please allow me to correct your mistakes; It is a good pose, but why not perfect it?”

“Yes, please!”

“Then look straight ahead like a grazing cow, and I'll come adjust your position.” She couldn't be this stupid, could she?

She could. I shed my clothes in a hurry and approached her slowly from behind.

“First, allow me to depress the arch a bit,“ I said, gently pressing down on her waist until she arched downwards, with her rump strutting invitingly before me. “This is perhaps a bit too much unless you are a heifer. Are you a milk cow? Milk cows would straighten.”

“Definitely a heifer!” she said indignantly, doing her best to maintain the posture.

“I'm convinced!” I told her admiringly, “You are a happy cow, aren't you?”

“Moo!” said the Countess.

“You know, this looks so fun I want to play too! Do you mind if I join you?”

“The more the merrier,” she encouraged me as I knelt behind her.

“Then there's a new bull in town! Oh my, IT is harder than I thought,” I told her.

“Yes, keeping the balance is tricky.“

“No wonder you look unsteady on your knees. Allow me to support you while we play”, I said, taking hold of her waist as IT unerringly took aim at the target.

“Thanks! Very gallant of you.”

“My pleasure,” I said as I pulled her back, impaling her.

“Moo!” said the Countess.

“Apropros of nothing, did you know that an adult bull's penis is about three feet long? Not many people know this apart from cows and those who raise cattle. And the Minotaur's mother, what's her name, she definitely knew.”

“Stop! You're splitting me!” cried the Countess, struggling weakly. Not that her position allowed much else.

“I label you a whiner. To quote my little witch, IT is smaller than a baby's head. What goes into you is smaller than what comes out of you.”

“Oh,” said Countess thoughtfully, “I guess that makes sense.”

“Queen Pasiphae, that's it! If she could do it, you can do it!”

“That seems logical”, gasped the Countess, “but if you really want to study the cow pose, my ladies in waiting are much better at it.”

The good old shock & awe tactics were working like a charm, whatever my little witch said. The hot little bundle was obviously concerned that I was not deriving as much pleasure from the experience as she was. The old charm never fails.

I've still got it.

“You are doing fine, and anyhow Toke never had any patience, so I doubt they are waiting any longer.”

“Oh,” said the Countess, and I got down to business in earnest, jiggling all her best parts.

Things were just getting interesting when somebody kicked open the door and I heard a young male voice saying, “My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to uuurk.” followed by a crash as the speaker was tackled by one of my guards.

Some days I just can't catch a break.

I can't say I was paying much attention, but there was something familiar about the voice – or perhaps the name? It was hard to concentrate.

“Say what?” I called over my shoulder.

“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated from the floor, a decent attempt at bravado for somebody trapped by one of my champions.

“Doesn't ring a bell. Could you be more specific with your complaint? I rape so many women.”

“It is true, he does,” said the guard. Why, it was old Mateja! Fancy that.

“Representing!” shouted the Countess.

“Shush. This hardly counts. How else would a bull greet a cow? You are getting the friendly treatment because my wife Áslaug counts you a friend, and aren't you the lucky one that I am willing to play your game posing as a bull?” I asked her kindly, “You should see her plans for some of her enemies.”

“I'm a lucky cow, Mr. Bull,” she answered, getting back into the spirit of things, “Mooo!”

“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated. Just the distraction I didn't need, being somewhat preoccupied.

“Will you stop saying that! Mateja, shut him up. Look, Belarmo, is it? From your name and your accent, you have clearly come a long way. Hispania, am I right? Lovely place. Great hospitality and willing women. Good times. Mateja, is he listening?”

“He's listening. Staring daggers at you, but listening.”

“I am a reasonable man and under other circumstances I would be more than happy to hear your grudge in detail before dismissing it, but as you can see I am preoccupied satisfying this heifer.”

“Moo!” said the Countess.

“You might not have much sense, but you had the guts to attack me, and I can use men like that. So how about you join my army and forget the ploughing of yesteryear, while I concentrate on today's?” I asked him reasonably, and said to Mateja, “let him speak.”

“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated.

“There's no helping some people. Kill him.”

I heard a snap, and then silence. Mateja was efficient as always.

I got back to business and once I erupted, the sheer force of it propelled the Countess forwards, headbutting the count's head into the fireplace.

That's when I realized Mateja hadn't left, for she broke into gales of laughter. It was good, healthy, clean laughter, the kind I hadn't heard from her since uncle Baldr's death.

“He shoots! He scores! Oh my, Sverker. You really are something!” she applauded me.

“He is,” wailed the Countess, “he is evil incarnate and I can't even turn and hit him since I'm impaled on an iron rod! It should be growing softer by now, but it is still pounding! And MOO to you, too, you depraved son of a bitch.” she continued sullenly.

“That's son of a bull to you, good cow,” I said, “and you should stop being so selfish. This isn't all about you, you know. I can't even turn to face me own dear aunt, because I've got a cow stuck on my cattle prod, but do you hear her complaining? No, you don't. Because Mateja isn't a whiner, that's why. But self-absorbed youth – you have no consideration for other people. Your problems are always greater. It makes me sick. Besides, we haven't gotten to depraved. Yet.”

“Moo,” the Countess said truculently.

“Look, Countess. I thought we had been through this. You are only in this position – bad choice of words there, perhaps – by your own choice. You could have followed your moron of a husband in death, or declared yourself Áslaug's enemy, but nooo, you wanted me to be play games, pose as a bull, and engage in diplomatic intercourse. If you had chosen death, the honourable choice, I would have respected it,” I lied, for I would have done nothing of the sort. She qualified for both my little witch's and Áslaug's lists, and that made her too good a target to pass up. And honourable? Who was I kidding? The Countess, hopefully.

“Some choice!” said the Countess.

“Bad choices are choices too. It isn't as if I want to do this, you know. I could be in bed with my dear wife Sif, who has accompanied me on campaign. It is only my duty to Áslaug that keeps me here.”

“You don't need to do this if you don't want to. Go to Sif. I won't tell.” suggested the Countess.

“Not an option. Since you are Áslaug's friend I am honour-bound to honour you as she asked me to, being extra gentle and thorough since, as the note said, you were just seventeen, newly-wed, and inexperienced. She certainly was right about that, and you give me little pleasure, but I am nothing if not a devoted husband.”

“Well, pardon me!” she said, offended.

“I don't see why I should.”

“I hate Áslaug, you know?”

“I suspected as much when I read the part about the celery. It is probably mutual.” I answered her generously.

“Celery?”

“All in due time. Now, may I suggest you look on the bright side of life and adopt a more cooperative attitude? Play along and not only will we both have a better time, it will over the sooner. Freyr knows I'd rather be bedding Sif than an obstinate novice, and since I feel IT firming up again, time is awasting.”

“Continue? Firming up AGAIN? You never stopped in the first place, only slowed down, and I never noticed your rod of iron going soft. My husband was never like that!”

“The benefits of a healthy lifestyle and lots of experience. Practice makes perfect, and my iron has been tempered for years in forges far hotter than yours.” I told her.

“Say what?”

Nobody appreciates a good metaphor.

“As my little witch explained it, the older I get, the harder IT gets. Very patriarchal. Much to the benefit of her breeding program.”

“I am sure there's a flaw in that logic somewhere,” she moaned, “but I'm having trouble concentrating.”

“Right. To business! What'll it be? Life, power, and possibly glory to come – or death.” I asked her, calmly.

“Life!”

“And who's my cow?”

“MOOOOO!” she said eagerly, giving herself over to the entertainment.


So did I, for a few glorious minutes, before my aunt interrupted. Turns out I had forgotten to dismiss her.

“Are you sure you don't want to marry my daughter, Sverker? She's strong for her age, and needs a real man rather than some weakling who'll break in her hands, and Viola is all for it. Dalla would be the perfect bodyguard for you, just like I used to be for dear Baldr, and by the looks of it you could make her happy indeed.”

“Dalla is thirteen, aunt Mateja, and anyhow you must know of the recent revelation. Four wives, maximum. Orders from above.”

“A shame. I must say that, having decided to ravage Baldr's brood, rogering his daughters left and right, it feels a bit unfair that you chose two of Praxida's and one of Leontia's but none of mine when you could have had one of each. If you don't mind me asking, what have they got that mine don't?”

“Brains.”

“Hard to argue with that, though were I smarter, I am sure I could. But I guess that's the point. At least you only took one while he was alive, and wisely so. Had he known of your plans to fertilize the younger generation, he'd have put you to death.”

He would too! It wasn't MY plan, though, it was my little witch's, but I could hardly tell aunt Mateja that. I could soothe her, though.

“Rest assured, aunt Mateja, that had it not been for Odin's revelation I would have made Dalla my wife two or three years from now when I was sure she was sturdy enough to breed. But I don't mess with the gods' commands.”

“Speaking of breeding, your cow seems to have collapsed while we were talking. No stamina.”

“Oh, did I leave IT in autonomous mode? My bad. Her mind probably shut down due to sensory overload. It happens.”

“Your uncle did the same occasionally, It was really annoying. Though... tell me...”

“Yes?”

“Is that how you broke the Ice Maiden? We were shocked when you claimed her for wife, but Leontia and Praxida and I were sure that Sif would outlast your attempts to break her, for she was ever as wilful as she was delusional. We expected her to be miserable and vengeful after you bedded her, but within a week she was demurely following your lead and hanging on your every word. It was unnatural!”

Within a week? Was THAT how it had looked outside the household? It had taken the better part of a year before she succumbed to my charm!

“Would you believe me if I said she fell for my charm and winsome nature?”

“No.”

“Then I guess your explanation is as good as any, aunt Mateja.”

“Ha, I guess I deserved that. And as your cow is stirring again, I guess I really should get going and take the corpse with me. But if you'll pardon me for staring at your arse, what is the scar on your cheek?”

“Left or right?”

“Left”

“Sheepdog. Ireland, 917. I crushed its skull with a single blow.”

“And the smaller one on your right”

“Shepherdess. Ireland, 917. Half a minute later. She really liked that dog.” I said, awaiting the follow up question I knew would come. It always does.

“But... how?”

“She was a contortionist. Being stuck on the business end of things did not inhibit her flexibility to the degree it does the Countess. I learned an important lesson that day.” I smirked.

“I recognize that smirk, Sverker. Baldr used to despair of you, whenever you were in that mood during his lessons. Now give!”

“I learned that even the smallest problem left unattended could come back to bite me in the arse.” I delivered the punchline with glee, as I had so many times before.

“You are a bad, bad, man, Sverker.” she congratulated me.

“I do my best, aunt Mateja.”



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I am dead on my feet.

Drained.

Tired to the bone.

I finally exhausted the merry widow and in a daze I staggered from her chamber, down the hallway, and to my room, where I greeted Sif as she rose to greet the dawn.

“What took you so long, Sverker?” she asked, curiously.

“I am out of celery”, I answered, and crashed on the bed, dead to the world.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I have escaped the Countess of Sneeze-cough-and-arkle-on-the-river much the worse for wear. With my teachings she'll probably do well. She might have been a stupid cow, but she sure was an energetic one. Sif says the Countess wasn't that stupid, but what would she know?



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

As dusk falls on the battlefield of Nopleasenoarrgggh, to give it its local name, we celebrate a battle worthy of the sagas!

The Skalds are getting ready for the victory feast, and I would love to join them, but as king I must think of posterity. When one of them thinks to ask me my impressions of the battle, as surely one will, I must spontaneously produce a poem or the perfect boast to be remembered by. But I'm no poet.

And don't have a good one-liner either.

In my desperation, I went so far as to ask Sif for help.

She looked approvingly at the battlefield, then gazed lovingly into my eyes, and intoned, “Say one thing for Sverker the King, say 'No Raven Went Hungry'.”

I should have known better. Sometimes Sif is no help at all.

But it is sort of catchy. Perhaps if the Skalds are drunk enough it will pass muster if I can't think of anything.