Thankmar's Rebellion - An Iron Century Mini-AAR
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An empire falls, and ancient kingdoms are reborn from its ashes. I do wonder how long these new kings will content themselves with only their own lands, and if some man of ambition will not try to forge a new empire of his own from the pieces some day...
Chapter 3
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Chapter 3: Stammesreichen
"Gentlemen, let us not let anyone say we must be beholden to one man ever again. No Karling, no pretender. We, the German tribes, are no longer East Francia, and no longer ruled by one king. We are responsible for our people, and only our people. We are truly free. The tribes may once again make their own destiny."
Announcements made, Thankmar, King of the Saxons, stormed back to his chaplain Ekkehard. He pulled out the family records, and went over them brusquely.
"So, it is done? The marriage to Hatheburg is now legitimate? And Richara?"
"Now a Ludolfinger, your majesty, as will all your future children born in wedlock shall be. You are no longer considered a bastard."
"Good! All is as it should always have been. I swear, if all it takes is some perspicacious pontiff in Rome to overthrow a marriage and declare someone a bastard after the fact, that says a lot for how holy matrimony really is, don't you think?"
Ekkehard swallowed. "Your majesty, I can fully comprehend why you would be upset with the path of life God put you upon, but surely, you can see its purpose now?"
"Hm? Yes, well, perhaps that was a bit rash of me to say. I've been busy touring Otto's holdings, ensuring everything is prepared for Saxons."
"And... you wish to keep a pagan symbol to represent the kingdom?"
"Saxony was pagan far longer than the other tribes, it's a valid representation of the kingdom. I am positive anyone taking one look at St. Peter's will know the faith of Saxon men."
"Ah. Um, yes, indeed. Please do forgive my inquisitiveness."
"Yes, yes, you're still a valuable part of the kingdom. Now I want you to go to the dungeons and attend to Otto. I am inclined to be merciful to my brother, but we cannot have him causing future trouble. So, I want you to administer the vows for him, and let him retire to the monastery."
Returning to the main hall, the Archbishops Adaldag and Adolf, of Bremen and Angria respectively, stood waiting.
"Your majesty, we are here to speak with you regarding the succession."
"I suppose it would be Richara, until such time I have a son?"
Adaldag and Adolf exchanged glances. "It would be most improper to let a baby girl take over."
"Well, I don't expect to die any time soon, but you two seem to be hatching a plan already."
"What? I would never--"
"About the succession, not against me, be serious."
The archbishops breathed a sigh of relief. "So, given that the dukes were responsible for choosing the successor in Germany, it is only right that such a custom continue in Saxony."
Thankmar was nonplussed. "Only right."
"Indeed."
"So, that's who, Gero? Hermann up north? Dirk in Frisia? I let Otakar of Kärnten go his own way. I thought he was Bavarian."
Adolf shook his head. "No, the margraves Gero and Hermann look after Slavic lands, not Saxons. And Dirk cares for the Dutch."
"Wichmann, then? Really? He lost most of his lands to Denmark and that monster Gorm."
Adaldag bowed slightly. "Your majesty, the people with enough power to choose your heir... are the two of us."
The king's eyes narrowed at the realization. "It can't be Otto. He's putting on his habit right now. Bruno is also destined for the church. That leaves Heinrich. Will you agree to Heinrich?"
"We will."
Thankmar watched the pair leave carefully, sure they would plan to take control if ever offered. "Meddlesome priests..."
As the change from count to king warranted it, Thankmar shuffled around his council. Gero was awarded the position of Marshal. Dirk was made Chancellor, and Hermann was made Advisor.
If it felt odd not to place Wichmann on the council following his support of the rebellion, his instincts were well assuaged within the year.
Thankmar toured his kingdom, visited the marches, and arrived in Zeeland, a far-flung province that had been held by Otto, and was now his. He watched peasants furtively arrive at various hidden altars, placing loaves and other donations upon them to a pagan goddess named Nehalennia. They don't have to worry about archbishops demanding yet another iota of power, he mused. He sat near the altar, letting the breeze from the North Sea wash over him. For the first time since he began his rebellion, since before Otto's coronation, in fact, he felt calm.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an old man approach the altar, placing the offered loaves in a basket. Something was... different?
Thankmar spoke up, "You know these were offered to pagan gods."
The old man looked up at his king and grinned. One of his eyes was milky, scarred over. "And what does your god care about that?"
"Well... I suppose He doesn't."
"He doesn't care about many things. Just as long as he gets his tithe."
"That. . . Still, should you be taking those?"
"Better they go to me than go to waste, wouldn't you agree?"
This man was infuriatingly sensible, Thankmar thought. "What if the others find out?"
"Oh, they know, my son. It's a bit early to talk, though. Good day, and be blessed."
The king watched incredulously as the elder tottered away, looked back out to sea for a moment, and lost track of him instantly.
The year droned on, and Thankmar bided his time. The coffers were drained after the war, and the Jews still expected repayment. The levies were severely undermanned, as the war of attrition ground all Saxons, no matter what their loyalties. He watched cautiously as Gorm the Old remained strong to his immediate north.
And, on top of that, the bishops were clamoring about coronation.
Yes, he needed to be crowned by God. His victories were not proof enough. But what was that, more letters, more supplication, more donations to this priest or that one?
By the grace of God and what meager coin that could be pilfered from the treasury, he thought.
Eberhard led the Franconians into war against Jylland, who was trying to take land from Norway. The bishops Adaldag and Adolf reminded Thankmar of the plight of Christians in pagan lands. But was this a ploy for sympathy? A way to simply take back lands they considered theirs, themselves?
There must be some way to break out from all these obligations, these little power plays, these methods of asking for money. If only there was something that could lead to a better way...
"Gentlemen, let us not let anyone say we must be beholden to one man ever again. No Karling, no pretender. We, the German tribes, are no longer East Francia, and no longer ruled by one king. We are responsible for our people, and only our people. We are truly free. The tribes may once again make their own destiny."
Announcements made, Thankmar, King of the Saxons, stormed back to his chaplain Ekkehard. He pulled out the family records, and went over them brusquely.
"So, it is done? The marriage to Hatheburg is now legitimate? And Richara?"
"Now a Ludolfinger, your majesty, as will all your future children born in wedlock shall be. You are no longer considered a bastard."
"Good! All is as it should always have been. I swear, if all it takes is some perspicacious pontiff in Rome to overthrow a marriage and declare someone a bastard after the fact, that says a lot for how holy matrimony really is, don't you think?"
Ekkehard swallowed. "Your majesty, I can fully comprehend why you would be upset with the path of life God put you upon, but surely, you can see its purpose now?"
"Hm? Yes, well, perhaps that was a bit rash of me to say. I've been busy touring Otto's holdings, ensuring everything is prepared for Saxons."
"And... you wish to keep a pagan symbol to represent the kingdom?"
"Saxony was pagan far longer than the other tribes, it's a valid representation of the kingdom. I am positive anyone taking one look at St. Peter's will know the faith of Saxon men."
"Ah. Um, yes, indeed. Please do forgive my inquisitiveness."
"Yes, yes, you're still a valuable part of the kingdom. Now I want you to go to the dungeons and attend to Otto. I am inclined to be merciful to my brother, but we cannot have him causing future trouble. So, I want you to administer the vows for him, and let him retire to the monastery."
Returning to the main hall, the Archbishops Adaldag and Adolf, of Bremen and Angria respectively, stood waiting.
"Your majesty, we are here to speak with you regarding the succession."
"I suppose it would be Richara, until such time I have a son?"
Adaldag and Adolf exchanged glances. "It would be most improper to let a baby girl take over."
"Well, I don't expect to die any time soon, but you two seem to be hatching a plan already."
"What? I would never--"
"About the succession, not against me, be serious."
The archbishops breathed a sigh of relief. "So, given that the dukes were responsible for choosing the successor in Germany, it is only right that such a custom continue in Saxony."
Thankmar was nonplussed. "Only right."
"Indeed."
"So, that's who, Gero? Hermann up north? Dirk in Frisia? I let Otakar of Kärnten go his own way. I thought he was Bavarian."
Adolf shook his head. "No, the margraves Gero and Hermann look after Slavic lands, not Saxons. And Dirk cares for the Dutch."
"Wichmann, then? Really? He lost most of his lands to Denmark and that monster Gorm."
Adaldag bowed slightly. "Your majesty, the people with enough power to choose your heir... are the two of us."
The king's eyes narrowed at the realization. "It can't be Otto. He's putting on his habit right now. Bruno is also destined for the church. That leaves Heinrich. Will you agree to Heinrich?"
"We will."
Thankmar watched the pair leave carefully, sure they would plan to take control if ever offered. "Meddlesome priests..."
As the change from count to king warranted it, Thankmar shuffled around his council. Gero was awarded the position of Marshal. Dirk was made Chancellor, and Hermann was made Advisor.
If it felt odd not to place Wichmann on the council following his support of the rebellion, his instincts were well assuaged within the year.
Thankmar toured his kingdom, visited the marches, and arrived in Zeeland, a far-flung province that had been held by Otto, and was now his. He watched peasants furtively arrive at various hidden altars, placing loaves and other donations upon them to a pagan goddess named Nehalennia. They don't have to worry about archbishops demanding yet another iota of power, he mused. He sat near the altar, letting the breeze from the North Sea wash over him. For the first time since he began his rebellion, since before Otto's coronation, in fact, he felt calm.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an old man approach the altar, placing the offered loaves in a basket. Something was... different?
Thankmar spoke up, "You know these were offered to pagan gods."
The old man looked up at his king and grinned. One of his eyes was milky, scarred over. "And what does your god care about that?"
"Well... I suppose He doesn't."
"He doesn't care about many things. Just as long as he gets his tithe."
"That. . . Still, should you be taking those?"
"Better they go to me than go to waste, wouldn't you agree?"
This man was infuriatingly sensible, Thankmar thought. "What if the others find out?"
"Oh, they know, my son. It's a bit early to talk, though. Good day, and be blessed."
The king watched incredulously as the elder tottered away, looked back out to sea for a moment, and lost track of him instantly.
The year droned on, and Thankmar bided his time. The coffers were drained after the war, and the Jews still expected repayment. The levies were severely undermanned, as the war of attrition ground all Saxons, no matter what their loyalties. He watched cautiously as Gorm the Old remained strong to his immediate north.
And, on top of that, the bishops were clamoring about coronation.
Yes, he needed to be crowned by God. His victories were not proof enough. But what was that, more letters, more supplication, more donations to this priest or that one?
By the grace of God and what meager coin that could be pilfered from the treasury, he thought.
Eberhard led the Franconians into war against Jylland, who was trying to take land from Norway. The bishops Adaldag and Adolf reminded Thankmar of the plight of Christians in pagan lands. But was this a ploy for sympathy? A way to simply take back lands they considered theirs, themselves?
There must be some way to break out from all these obligations, these little power plays, these methods of asking for money. If only there was something that could lead to a better way...
Surely it's a good sign both for Thankmar and Iron Century in general to have profited from such an incredibly rare event 
.
But all that pagan symbolism in that chapter makes me think that he's not going to move against Gorm any time soon.
.But all that pagan symbolism in that chapter makes me think that he's not going to move against Gorm any time soon.
Personally I wouldn't trust Thankmar as far as I could spit. One always has to be nervous when Saxons think they are being tricksy.
It was funny. Toward the end of the war, there was a notification of a plot. I checked and it was Otto plotting to kill me. I thought it was cute.Haha, well played. Love the reference to Thankmar's historic fate
Anyone getting into the thread could use a drop down menu to access directly each "chapter" post, instead of having to search through the thread.
Not a problem yet, but after 3 pages it might become cumbersome.
I second the suggestion of threadmarks. No one should have to go through several pages of junk to see the real content we all came for.
Chapter 4
Chapter 4: The Blood of Widukind
With the new year came a revolt in the Billung March. One of the Slavic tribes in the area chafed under Catholic rule and started looting the churches.
The revolt was put down within a couple months. As Thankmar sentenced the tribe's chief to hanging for his insurrection, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for his cause. The rebuilding of the treasury and levies happened ever so slowly, but putting down the revolt did stir his passions and led to him considering his true feelings in more detail. On the way home from the north, he happened to see a large army marching across the plains.
"Danes," explained Hermann, local margrave and commander. "It's something you get used to out here. They march out of Denmark and pass this way before heading to whatever target they have in mind to raid or conquer."
"They took land from your brother Wichmann while we fought against Otto, but they've never attacked or raided Saxony proper, have they?"
"No. They recognize your strength. I've heard that Gorm holds you in begrudging respect. He'd run you through given half the chance, but the Danes respect strength and do not challenge it."
And yet the bishops expect you to bow your head no matter how strong you are, the king thought to himself.
He had scarcely come back home before the next problem raised its head: Count Amadeus of Berg was found murdered by his son and heir, Baldarich.
Did he really think murdering his father was a cunning little plan? Thankmar hadn't even killed Otto. He sent his men out to arrest the count for the act, but he immediately turned to rebellion.
Heinrich's betrothed came of age and they were married, securing a pact with Italy.
This still left Baldarich's rebellion. More concerned with maintaining forces, Thankmar focused on sieging down the castle and town, which was slow and droning. He had invited Garçes, a warrior from northern Spain and an expert in sieges, to oversee the encampments as he quit the command and wandered.
After a couple days travel, he arrived back in Zeeland, looking to refresh by the coastline. He had been told to avoid the villages, that smallpox had taken hold. The land seemed more desolate, as people fastidiously kept strangers at bay. Almost automatically, he found himself by the altar again. This time, there were greater sacrifices, a fresh line of strangled seabirds, a baby's swaddling stained with blood and pus. Yet no one was around, and the gentle breeze carried the scent of desolation.
"It's not safe here, my son."
Thankmar was startled to see the old man again, hobbling up the hill, basket swaying in the breeze.
"The pox holds these lands right now. See what's being offered? The people are praying for health, for succor."
The elder picked up the strangled birds, all knotted together in a single line. He gave them a sniff. "Ah, still fresh. That's how much they care. You can feed a family for a week with this. Or a king for couple days."
Thankmar could do little but simply watch. His companion picked up the swaddling. With a smile, he turned to his king and replied, "Oh, don't worry, I had the pox long ago, it won't take in me anymore. Bit late for this little boy, though, I'm afraid. Still, you see how devout they are by how they still want to share what little they have left with the gods."
Choking, Thankmar replied, "Can... can I make an offering, too?"
"You've got your own god to make an offering to. Why would you want to do it here?" A scoff. A taunting reply.
"It's all pomp and circumstance, gold used to showcase gold. I swear, the bishops never have enough, and it's as if everything in my land just flows to Rome. But this, there's something more personal about these devotions. Less about appeal to one authority."
The old man cracked a grin. Thankmar swore his milky, sightless eye was staring into his soul. "Your land? Well then... But you needn't concern yourself with old faiths like this. More personal, perhaps, but disorganized, more scattered. Those who follow Nehalennia, Freyr and Freya, Wotan, Thor, they do not meet a challenge as a unit. They sit scattered, the gods bickering amongst themselves, and the tide of Jesus Christ washes them away like the ocean on the sandy beach. You are German, right?"
"Saxon," came the proud reply.
"See, there's hope for you yet, my son. Germany? Well, that's the solid block, one people fit for one holy empire, for one god and one savior. But Saxony? That's a land where the men are free, wild, willful. They know they split with their brothers, bicker amongst themselves, but still see that there is a way forward. It is not an easy path, but Wotan is the god of the Saxons. Come, let's see what you have to offer."
Thankmar swallowed, realizing he had no idea what to bring, no idea what to offer. He dressed as simply as possible for this trip, not interested in being treated as a king while soaking up the sea breeze. He had one item on his person. A ring, a golden seal, proof that he is king, should it become necessary to show it. He stroked his beard anxiously, and pulled out the ring. "Here."
The old man's good eye grew wide to see the treasure. "This... Oh, no, I couldn't--the gods couldn't accept this. It's... It's got the sign of the Cross on it. This belongs to God, not to--"
Thankmar grimaced, slapped the ring down on the altar, picked up a stone, and smashed it down upon the ring, bending it out of shape, sapphires and rubies popping off and rolling around the altar surface.
The king's labored breathing could be heard above the surf.
"Well then, Wotan blesses you this day and welcomes you, my son."
Lotharingia launched an assault against the rebel provinces in an attempt to take them into the kingdom, and Baldarich agreed to swear unquestioned loyalty to Thankmar in return for his continued freedom. Reginar went back home empty-handed.
Back in Braunschweig, Thankmar considered his next move. He searched his court for sympathizers, but only his brother Heinrich proved receptive to his message. He dare not share it with the likes of Adaldag and Adolf, who still expected the regular tithe as usual.
However, his next move was taken from him by the pox. Saxony was beset upon by a number of plagues; slow fever, camp fever, and the dreaded smallpox that took hold throughout the middle part of the kingdom.
The next years were lean as Thankmar and his court remained huddled up in the castle, watched their food stores dwindle to nothing, and relying on nothing but faith that this challenge would be overcome.
Thankmar wondered why he kept his new faith, in truth the Old Faith, secret from his court and people. It was not serving anyone any good, and he likened the situation as being bottled up in the castle, safe from the world at large... but afraid. Stay here forever, and all that would happen is starvation. Thankmar could not afford to be afraid. He opened up the castle doors and looked at the world beyond. Gorm had passed on, leaving Denmark in the hands of a child.
The world would keep changing, and Thankmar had to change along with it. He publicly declared, once and for all, that he would follow the Old Religion, that he would worship Wotan and Freya and all the gods, the Saxon gods, in the traditional way. And for his first act as faithful, he declared a war of conquest for the holy site of Uppland, presently in the hands of the Rus.
The march north was surprisingly simple. The Danes let them through. The Smålanders welcomed Thankmar's soldiers without issue. Whereas a Christian force would find themselves mired in the snow, Thankmar's men marched with purpose, if at times confused. The siege on Uppland was simple, easily accomplished, the location little more than scattered fishing villages around a central temple. Once complete, the forces moved south to Sudermannia, to continue to press their advantage.
Snow fell. Reports of the approaching Rus surfaced. Scouts trudged ahead and reported on the size of the force: about 11,000 Slavic warriors were fast approaching, confident to take back their lands. Thankmar's forces were only 4,000. Furthermore, there was no chance to retreat through the snow. There would be a battle; huge, and outnumbered.
Thankmar rallied his men. They would stand their ground, force the Rus to cross the Mälaren, and pray for deliverance. Most of the troops prayed to God. Thankmar left the camp for the deep forest to pray to Wotan.
The Rus struck fast, taking advantage of the winter weather to cross where the lake had frozen. Thankmar charged out to meet them, relying on superior weaponry to push the Rus back onto the ice. The opponent commander appeared before him, and with a surge of energy, he pursued him to fight him personally and take him down.
Thankmar felt assured of victory. He had more steel, more experience fighting, more purpose, reveling in his newfound freedom from the Catholic system of claims and marriages. But with more steel came more weight, and the ice proved treacherous. His more lightly armed and armored opponent lashed out with a fur and tripped the king. The ice cracked beneath him and groaned. Thankmar's foe whipped out a sharp knife, and standing over him, plunged the dagger into his left eye. The ice beneath him buckled, and Thankmar fell into the water. The frigid depths closed in around him as he felt the world slip past.
He awoke on a straw bed in a small hut. A fire smelled of pine needles and birch bark. The whole side of his face burned like kindling, and he was nearly blind, only able to make out blurry shadows in his good eye.
A familiar voice wafted over him. "Ah, you're awake. I thought I'd lost you."
"Where... where are my men?"
"You'll know soon enough. Here, I'd better treat that wound. You'll lose more than your eye if I don't get this salve in it."
A shape in a dark cloak shuffled over to him and dabbed at his wound, an action both searing and soothing.
"Forgive my clumsy fingers. My daughter usually does these sorts of things, but I've needed to make sure you're all right, my son."
Thankmar jolted up quickly in realization. "Where... where am I? Is this Zeeland?"
The old man chuckled. "No, someplace much farther away... much closer. Not important, you'll be back at your men's side soon enough for victory. This had to happen, you see."
"How... Why..."
"You first needed to be able to see things my way. You're going to lead your men to victory, and lead the gods to theirs."
"I don't... I don't understand."
"You don't need to. Just know that I walk with you, my son."
The old man leaned in to kiss Thankmar on the forehead. His head, his body felt bathed in a wave of numbness.
Next thing Thankmar knew, he was being pulled out of a hole in the lake ice. His men expected him to be dead. But in a way that could only be considered a miracle, Thankmar rose quickly to his feet once back on solid ground, hugged Garçes, and returned to lead the troops. The Saxon forces were elated to see their king rise from the ice and take command, and routed the enemy forces. A contingent of Smålanders joined the fray on Thankmar's side, filling any gaps in the Saxon lines with Viking fury. The battle, and the war, was won.
The captured soldiers were put to death. He was particularly pleased to come across his attacker, the man who almost killed him, and watched him squeal while being gored to death by a wild boar. He celebrated that winter in Uppland, handing the tribe over to Heinrich to oversee. Heinrich had clearly adapted to heathen ways, and was happy to protect the holy temple.
And so, centuries later, Saxony had risen again from the ashes of Charlemagne's Holy Roman Empire.
With the new year came a revolt in the Billung March. One of the Slavic tribes in the area chafed under Catholic rule and started looting the churches.
The revolt was put down within a couple months. As Thankmar sentenced the tribe's chief to hanging for his insurrection, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for his cause. The rebuilding of the treasury and levies happened ever so slowly, but putting down the revolt did stir his passions and led to him considering his true feelings in more detail. On the way home from the north, he happened to see a large army marching across the plains.
"Danes," explained Hermann, local margrave and commander. "It's something you get used to out here. They march out of Denmark and pass this way before heading to whatever target they have in mind to raid or conquer."
"They took land from your brother Wichmann while we fought against Otto, but they've never attacked or raided Saxony proper, have they?"
"No. They recognize your strength. I've heard that Gorm holds you in begrudging respect. He'd run you through given half the chance, but the Danes respect strength and do not challenge it."
And yet the bishops expect you to bow your head no matter how strong you are, the king thought to himself.
He had scarcely come back home before the next problem raised its head: Count Amadeus of Berg was found murdered by his son and heir, Baldarich.
Did he really think murdering his father was a cunning little plan? Thankmar hadn't even killed Otto. He sent his men out to arrest the count for the act, but he immediately turned to rebellion.
Heinrich's betrothed came of age and they were married, securing a pact with Italy.
This still left Baldarich's rebellion. More concerned with maintaining forces, Thankmar focused on sieging down the castle and town, which was slow and droning. He had invited Garçes, a warrior from northern Spain and an expert in sieges, to oversee the encampments as he quit the command and wandered.
After a couple days travel, he arrived back in Zeeland, looking to refresh by the coastline. He had been told to avoid the villages, that smallpox had taken hold. The land seemed more desolate, as people fastidiously kept strangers at bay. Almost automatically, he found himself by the altar again. This time, there were greater sacrifices, a fresh line of strangled seabirds, a baby's swaddling stained with blood and pus. Yet no one was around, and the gentle breeze carried the scent of desolation.
"It's not safe here, my son."
Thankmar was startled to see the old man again, hobbling up the hill, basket swaying in the breeze.
"The pox holds these lands right now. See what's being offered? The people are praying for health, for succor."
The elder picked up the strangled birds, all knotted together in a single line. He gave them a sniff. "Ah, still fresh. That's how much they care. You can feed a family for a week with this. Or a king for couple days."
Thankmar could do little but simply watch. His companion picked up the swaddling. With a smile, he turned to his king and replied, "Oh, don't worry, I had the pox long ago, it won't take in me anymore. Bit late for this little boy, though, I'm afraid. Still, you see how devout they are by how they still want to share what little they have left with the gods."
Choking, Thankmar replied, "Can... can I make an offering, too?"
"You've got your own god to make an offering to. Why would you want to do it here?" A scoff. A taunting reply.
"It's all pomp and circumstance, gold used to showcase gold. I swear, the bishops never have enough, and it's as if everything in my land just flows to Rome. But this, there's something more personal about these devotions. Less about appeal to one authority."
The old man cracked a grin. Thankmar swore his milky, sightless eye was staring into his soul. "Your land? Well then... But you needn't concern yourself with old faiths like this. More personal, perhaps, but disorganized, more scattered. Those who follow Nehalennia, Freyr and Freya, Wotan, Thor, they do not meet a challenge as a unit. They sit scattered, the gods bickering amongst themselves, and the tide of Jesus Christ washes them away like the ocean on the sandy beach. You are German, right?"
"Saxon," came the proud reply.
"See, there's hope for you yet, my son. Germany? Well, that's the solid block, one people fit for one holy empire, for one god and one savior. But Saxony? That's a land where the men are free, wild, willful. They know they split with their brothers, bicker amongst themselves, but still see that there is a way forward. It is not an easy path, but Wotan is the god of the Saxons. Come, let's see what you have to offer."
Thankmar swallowed, realizing he had no idea what to bring, no idea what to offer. He dressed as simply as possible for this trip, not interested in being treated as a king while soaking up the sea breeze. He had one item on his person. A ring, a golden seal, proof that he is king, should it become necessary to show it. He stroked his beard anxiously, and pulled out the ring. "Here."
The old man's good eye grew wide to see the treasure. "This... Oh, no, I couldn't--the gods couldn't accept this. It's... It's got the sign of the Cross on it. This belongs to God, not to--"
Thankmar grimaced, slapped the ring down on the altar, picked up a stone, and smashed it down upon the ring, bending it out of shape, sapphires and rubies popping off and rolling around the altar surface.
The king's labored breathing could be heard above the surf.
"Well then, Wotan blesses you this day and welcomes you, my son."
Lotharingia launched an assault against the rebel provinces in an attempt to take them into the kingdom, and Baldarich agreed to swear unquestioned loyalty to Thankmar in return for his continued freedom. Reginar went back home empty-handed.
Back in Braunschweig, Thankmar considered his next move. He searched his court for sympathizers, but only his brother Heinrich proved receptive to his message. He dare not share it with the likes of Adaldag and Adolf, who still expected the regular tithe as usual.
However, his next move was taken from him by the pox. Saxony was beset upon by a number of plagues; slow fever, camp fever, and the dreaded smallpox that took hold throughout the middle part of the kingdom.
The next years were lean as Thankmar and his court remained huddled up in the castle, watched their food stores dwindle to nothing, and relying on nothing but faith that this challenge would be overcome.
Thankmar wondered why he kept his new faith, in truth the Old Faith, secret from his court and people. It was not serving anyone any good, and he likened the situation as being bottled up in the castle, safe from the world at large... but afraid. Stay here forever, and all that would happen is starvation. Thankmar could not afford to be afraid. He opened up the castle doors and looked at the world beyond. Gorm had passed on, leaving Denmark in the hands of a child.
The world would keep changing, and Thankmar had to change along with it. He publicly declared, once and for all, that he would follow the Old Religion, that he would worship Wotan and Freya and all the gods, the Saxon gods, in the traditional way. And for his first act as faithful, he declared a war of conquest for the holy site of Uppland, presently in the hands of the Rus.
The march north was surprisingly simple. The Danes let them through. The Smålanders welcomed Thankmar's soldiers without issue. Whereas a Christian force would find themselves mired in the snow, Thankmar's men marched with purpose, if at times confused. The siege on Uppland was simple, easily accomplished, the location little more than scattered fishing villages around a central temple. Once complete, the forces moved south to Sudermannia, to continue to press their advantage.
Snow fell. Reports of the approaching Rus surfaced. Scouts trudged ahead and reported on the size of the force: about 11,000 Slavic warriors were fast approaching, confident to take back their lands. Thankmar's forces were only 4,000. Furthermore, there was no chance to retreat through the snow. There would be a battle; huge, and outnumbered.
Thankmar rallied his men. They would stand their ground, force the Rus to cross the Mälaren, and pray for deliverance. Most of the troops prayed to God. Thankmar left the camp for the deep forest to pray to Wotan.
The Rus struck fast, taking advantage of the winter weather to cross where the lake had frozen. Thankmar charged out to meet them, relying on superior weaponry to push the Rus back onto the ice. The opponent commander appeared before him, and with a surge of energy, he pursued him to fight him personally and take him down.
Thankmar felt assured of victory. He had more steel, more experience fighting, more purpose, reveling in his newfound freedom from the Catholic system of claims and marriages. But with more steel came more weight, and the ice proved treacherous. His more lightly armed and armored opponent lashed out with a fur and tripped the king. The ice cracked beneath him and groaned. Thankmar's foe whipped out a sharp knife, and standing over him, plunged the dagger into his left eye. The ice beneath him buckled, and Thankmar fell into the water. The frigid depths closed in around him as he felt the world slip past.
He awoke on a straw bed in a small hut. A fire smelled of pine needles and birch bark. The whole side of his face burned like kindling, and he was nearly blind, only able to make out blurry shadows in his good eye.
A familiar voice wafted over him. "Ah, you're awake. I thought I'd lost you."
"Where... where are my men?"
"You'll know soon enough. Here, I'd better treat that wound. You'll lose more than your eye if I don't get this salve in it."
A shape in a dark cloak shuffled over to him and dabbed at his wound, an action both searing and soothing.
"Forgive my clumsy fingers. My daughter usually does these sorts of things, but I've needed to make sure you're all right, my son."
Thankmar jolted up quickly in realization. "Where... where am I? Is this Zeeland?"
The old man chuckled. "No, someplace much farther away... much closer. Not important, you'll be back at your men's side soon enough for victory. This had to happen, you see."
"How... Why..."
"You first needed to be able to see things my way. You're going to lead your men to victory, and lead the gods to theirs."
"I don't... I don't understand."
"You don't need to. Just know that I walk with you, my son."
The old man leaned in to kiss Thankmar on the forehead. His head, his body felt bathed in a wave of numbness.
Next thing Thankmar knew, he was being pulled out of a hole in the lake ice. His men expected him to be dead. But in a way that could only be considered a miracle, Thankmar rose quickly to his feet once back on solid ground, hugged Garçes, and returned to lead the troops. The Saxon forces were elated to see their king rise from the ice and take command, and routed the enemy forces. A contingent of Smålanders joined the fray on Thankmar's side, filling any gaps in the Saxon lines with Viking fury. The battle, and the war, was won.
The captured soldiers were put to death. He was particularly pleased to come across his attacker, the man who almost killed him, and watched him squeal while being gored to death by a wild boar. He celebrated that winter in Uppland, handing the tribe over to Heinrich to oversee. Heinrich had clearly adapted to heathen ways, and was happy to protect the holy temple.
And so, centuries later, Saxony had risen again from the ashes of Charlemagne's Holy Roman Empire.
Well Charlemagne certainly is screaming from beyond the grave, Widikund probably is laughing at his side. With that said I wish you luck in the inevitable holy wars from the Christians, especially from the Franks.
The pope must trembling in fear of the impending Germanic invasion.
It's all a matter of time now.
Your Saxon ancestors will surely relish the moment when you sack the Eternal City as they have before.
That said though, first things first, there are a lot of Christian CoAs hovering over Saxon lands still, they must accept the true way as brothers -or die.
It's all a matter of time now.
Your Saxon ancestors will surely relish the moment when you sack the Eternal City as they have before.
That said though, first things first, there are a lot of Christian CoAs hovering over Saxon lands still, they must accept the true way as brothers -or die.